He had crept into the farther corner of his den, where, in the present distracted state of his mind, it did not even occur to him to extinguish the lamp he had left burning, or to let in the daylight he had excluded. There he sat, brooding over the unfortunate issue of his divination, in very uneasy contemplation of the danger that threatened him in consequence, distant though he then thought it. A coward in his heart, he began to curse himself for having tried schemes which now seemed likely to end so fatally for himself. He turned over a variety of plans for securing his safety, but, after all his cogitation, flight alone seemed to be the only one that was likely to be really available. But then Sir Walter might recover; in which case he might still obtain the credit of his recovery, and his ambitious schemes be yet crowned with success. Thus the devil again tempted him; and he finally resolved to wait patiently until night, which was by this time at hand, and then steal quietly down to ascertain Sir Walter’s state, and act accordingly. Should he find him worse, or even no better than when he left him, he resolved to go secretly to the ramparts, there to undo some of the ropes of the warlike engines that defended the walls, and to let himself down by means of them at a part where he knew the height would be least formidable, and so effect his escape.
Occupied as the Ancient was with these thoughts, although he had heard the clamours and shouts rising from below, yet, buried in the farthest corner of his den, they came to his ear like the murmurs of a far-distant storm; and, accustomed to the every-day noise of a crowded garrison, they did not even strike him as at all extraordinary.
To divert these apprehensions which he could by no means allay, he opened one of his favourite books, and endeavoured to occupy himself in his usual study; but his mind wandered in spite of all his exertions to keep it fixed, and he turned the leaves, and traced the lines with his eyes without being in the least conscious of the meaning they conveyed. He roused himself, [[128]]and began reading aloud, as if he could have talked himself into quiet by the very sound of his own voice. He went on without at first perceiving the particular nature of the passage he had stumbled on; but his attention being now called to it, he was somewhat horrified to observe that it contained the form of exorcism employed for raising the devil in person. By some unaccountable fatality, he went on with it, wishing all the while that he had never begun it, but yet more strangely afraid to stop; until at length, approaching the conclusion, he ended with these terrible words—“Sathanas, Sathanas, Sathanas, Sathanas, Prince of Darkness, appear!”
He stopped, and looked fearfully around him, as soon as they had passed his lips. The door of the place slowly opened, and the head of the very Franciscan monk who had formerly visited him, the face deeply shaded by the projecting cowl, was thrust within the doorway.
“I am here—what wouldst thou with me?” said he, in a deep and hollow voice.
The Ancient threw himself upon his knees, and drew back his body into the corner. His teeth chattered in his head, and he was deprived of speech. He covered his eyes with his hands, as if afraid to look upon the object of his dread. He now verily believed that he had been formerly visited by the Devil, and that the Arch-Fiend had again returned to carry him away. The Franciscan crouched, and glided forward into the middle of the place.
“What becomes of him, lossel,” said he, in a tremendous voice, “what becomes of him who takes the Devil’s wages, and doeth not his work? What becomes of him who vainly tries to deceive the Devil his master? Fool! didst thou not believe that I was the Prince of Darkness?”
The terrified Ancient had now no doubt that he was indeed the Devil; still he kept his hands over his eyes, and drew himself yet more up, in dread that every succeeding moment he should feel himself clutched by his fiery fangs.
“Hast thou not tried to cheat me, wretch—me, who cannot but know all things?” continued the Franciscan.
“Oh, spare me, spare me! I confess, I confess. Avaunt thee, Sathanas!—Spare!—Avaunt!—Spare me, Sathanas!” muttered the miserable wretch, altogether unconscious of what he uttered.