“Ah, Sir! they have made him cross the Bridge of Sighs! he lies in the dungeons of the condemned; sentence of death has been announced to him and two others.”
“And will it be executed? When? Oh, unhappy man! and what are the others’ names?”
“I know no more. The sentences have not been published. It is reported in Venice that they will be commuted. I trust in God they may, at least, as regards the good Doctor. Do you know, I am as fond of that noble fellow, pardon the expression, as if he were my own brother.”
He seemed moved, and walked away. Imagine the agitation I suffered throughout the whole of that day, and indeed long after, as there were no means of ascertaining anything further respecting the fate of these unfortunate men.
A month elapsed, and at length the sentences connected with the first trial were published. Nine were condemned to death, graciously exchanged for hard imprisonment, some for twenty, and others for fifteen years in the fortress of Spielberg, near the city of Brunn, in Moravia; while those for ten years and under were to be sent to the fortress of Lubiana.
Were we authorised to conclude, from this commutation of sentence in regard to those first condemned, that the parties subject to the second trial would likewise be spared? Was the indulgence to be confined only to the former, on account of their having been arrested previous to the publication of the edicts against secret societies; the full vengeance of the law being reserved for subsequent offenders?
Well, I exclaimed, we shall not long be kept in suspense; I am at least grateful to Heaven for being allowed time to prepare myself in a becoming manner for the final scene.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
It was now my only consideration how to die like a Christian, and with proper fortitude. I felt, indeed, a strong temptation to avoid the scaffold by committing suicide, but overcame it. What merit is there in refusing to die by the hand of the executioner, and yet to fall by one’s own? To save one’s honour? But is it not childish to suppose that there can be more honour in cheating the executioner, than in not doing this, when it is clear that we must die. Even had I not been a Christian, upon serious reflection, suicide would have appeared to me both ridiculous and useless, if not criminal in a high degree.
“If the term of life be expired,” continued I, “am I not fortunate in being permitted to collect my thoughts and purify my conscience with penitence and prayer becoming a man in affliction. In popular estimation, the being led to the scaffold is the worst part of death; in the opinion of the wise, is not this far preferable to the thousand deaths which daily occur by disease, attended by general prostration of intellect, without power to raise the thoughts from the lowest state of physical exhaustion.”