George. Where thine eye, accustomed to the sunshine, has no power to pierce, my spirit presses forward.
Gloom roll on to gloom—and darkness gather unto darkness!
He enters the door, followed by his father, and rapidly descends into the vault.
A long, vaulted, subterranean dungeon. Grates, bars, chains, and broken instruments of torture. The Man, with a torch in his hand, stands at the base of a great block of granite, on the top of which stands George.
The Man. Come down to me, George, I implore!
George. Hearest thou not these voices? Seest thou not these forms?
The Man. All is still as the grave—and almost as dark. The light of the torch is instantly swallowed up by the damp chill gloom around us!
George. Listen! Ever nearer! ever clearer! One after another they are slowly filing on from the depths of the narrow vaults—they are solemnly seating themselves below, far in the background; behind thee, father!
The Man. Thy madness is my damnation! Thy mind is wandering, my poor child; thou art destroying the strength which I now so sorely need!