University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE COFFIN AND THE CORSE.

THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE, AND THE SWORDER
SEALS HIS FATE BY A TOUCH
OF THE FATAL SPRING.

Far beneath the Convent, down in the very
bosom of the earth, far beneath the chamber of
the death-bowl, alone and in darkness, rested the
coffin and the corse for the space of an hour,
awaiting the spade and the Sexton, the priest
with his prayers, and the grave with its silence.

The sound of trampling feet, broke along the
silence of the earth-hidden passage, and presently,
through the crevices of the dungeon door, thin
rays of light streamed along the cell. Then there
was drawing of bolts, and rattling of chains, and
in an instant the ruddy glare of torches, revealed
the ill-looking form of Balvardo, standing in the
doorway, and beside him stood a short, thin old
man, with slight locks of grey hair, falling upon
his coarse doublet. There was a vacant and wandering
expression in his eye, while his parched
lips, hanging apart, gave an idiotic appearance to
his countenance. The long, talon-like fingers of
his withered right hand, grasped a spade covered
with rust, and eaten by time.

“Ha—ha!” laughed Balvardo. “The potion
which I gave her, some hours ago, wrapt her in
a sleep, like the slumber of old death. Blood o'
the Turk, how her hands clutched the body o'
the dead, when I first tried to tear it from her
arms—even in her sleep she clutched it! I have
him at last—sound and sure! He escaped me
in the cell of the Doomed, escaped this sword in
the Cavern of the Dead, and—and—now, by the
fiend I have him at last!”

The Sworder advanced to the Coffin, he gazed
upon the pale face of the dead, with a long and
anxious look.

“He, he, he,” chuckled the old man, “Why
didst thou hate him, noble Captain?”

“I know not,” muttered Balvardo, with an absent
air, “yet I always had a sneaking suspicion
that one day or other, this man, now a corse,
would work my death! A queer feeling always
haunted me, that made me feel like the felon walking
to his doom, so long as this—father-murderer
remained alive! Now he is dead, but I fear him
yet, and will fear him till he is safely buried i' the
earth!”

“Thou wouldst cover his face with this rich,
yellow earth?” sneered the ancient man,—“He,
he he! The grave hides all secrets!”

“To thy duty, Old Gibber-jabber,” exclaimed
Balvardo, “Here's thy man. Lay hold of him
and help me to drag the coffin to the other side
of the dungeon. Pull him along—there—there!”

Throwing the coffin upon the damp earth, the
old man placed a smoking lamp near the prostrate
head of the corse, and then intently watched the
motions of Balvardo, who was drawing the point
of his sword along the surface of the earth.

“Let me do't, let me do't, most noble captain,”
exclaimed the old man, pushing Balvardo aside,
—“for years, and years, and years, man and boy,
have I wielded this good spade, here in these
nice, cozy, comfortable chambers! He—he—he!
To think a fellow like thee, with that miserable
tool, that is unworthy to be called a—spade—to
think that a stranger like thee, should think to
excel me—Old Glow-worm—in laying out a
grave!—He—he—he!”

“Old Glow-worm!—Ha ha ha!—a choice
name by my soul!”

“A very good name; they call me so—they
who bring me food every day—they poke it
through the big door through which thou didst
pass, most noble captain. A merry time we've
had of it here—a merry time!”

“We!—who dost thou mean?”

“Well! Thou art a fool, beshrew me!—we
I and my comrades, who always receive our food
at the big iron door. Here, long, long, very long,
we have lived in these nice cozy chambers.
—Sometimes they fight and kill one another—
then I dig their graves! See! how nicely the rich
earth turns up! This is a spade!”

Prattling after this fashion, the poor old idiot
turned up the earth till he stood in a square hole
about a foot in depth, when a glance at the pale
visage of Adrian arrested his attention.

“He, he, he! They always look so!—Queer,
—eh, noble captain?”

“What! hast ever had any other business of
this sort?”

“Why, bless ye, most noble captain, I've put
scores and scores of them under the rich, yellow
earth. They bring 'em to me—they at the big

iron door. This is earth for ye! Look! how the
spade sinks into the mould!—He, he, he!”

“What an old devil!” muttered Balvardo to
himself. How canst thou be merry in these
glomy pits? eh, Old One?”

“Merry?—He, he, he! Merry didst say, why
bless ye, when I and my comrades gather round our
food, I am as merry as is the sound of this spade,
driving into the earth! Merry! why I sing, most
noble captain, I sing!”

“Thou sing! Ha ha ha! Thou indeed!”

“Why not I, eh? Beshrew me but thou art a
fool! I can sing such a right mirthful song—but
they never like it—they my comrades!”

“By Saint Peter, I'll wager a stoup of wine,
that thou didst never see the light of day—eh,
old rat?”

“Day! what is that?—But for my song—here
goes!,'

And then busily plying the spade, in a cracked
voice he sang the following words, in a sort of
wild chaunt, which he occasionally varied by
sounds that resembled the yell of a screech-owl.

THE SONG OF THE ANCIENT MAN.[1]

As he sang, the old man plunged the spade lustily
into the earth, and throwing aside the large
lumps of clay, he continued with great glee—

He wound this up with an unnatural noise,
half shrick, and half yell, and hollow and dread
the dungeon arches gave back the strain.

“He, he, he!—I know a merrier catch than
that! List ye, my noble captain.”

He then made a motion with his hand, as if in
the act of drinking, and then a shout of wild
laughter sounded through the cell.

He swept his spade around with maniac glee,
and then in a voice louder and shriller, while his
shrunken breast heaved with the wildness of his
emotion, he sang,

“A brave song! Ha ha ha!” By my faith a
brave song! Where didst pick it up, Old Screech-Owl,
eh?”

“Glow-worm is my name,” replied the other
demurely,—“Glow-worm—ah! but this is rich
earth! Look! what big, lusty, clumps. He, he,
he! How cold and pale he looks—he that I am
to hury—See!”

“He doth look cold and pale!” muttered Balvardo.
“Is the grave deep enough, Devil-darkness?
Let's house him i' th' earth without delay.”

“The grave scarce reaches to my middle—deeper
let us dig it, noble captain—deeper!”

“I tell thee, Devil-darkness, I cannot look upon
the cold and stony face of the dead! Deeper
thou mayst dig the grave—but the body must be
kidden from sight in the meanwhile. 'Slife—I left
my cloak in the vaults above, and I have no robe
to throw over the coffin!”

“He—he—he, thou'rt a brave man, yet poor
old Glow-worm knows more than thee! Look
around the cell, most noble captain, and tell me
what thou see'st?”

“I see the rough walls of stone, the roof of rock
the floor of clay. Not a whit more, by the
Fiend!”

“Look again—pass thine eyes along the wall
opposite yon oaken door. What seest thou now,
most noble captain?”

“I see a bolt of iron, rusted and time-eaten, projecting
from the wall—”

“Wouldst know how to open a passage into
the stone-room, next to this cell? Move the bolt
quickly to and fro, and yon massy stone will roll
back into the stone-room! Thou canst lay the
coffin within its walls, until the grave is deep
enow.”

“The bolt moves—ha! The stone, the massive
stone glides from the wall—another push at the
bolt! There—blood o' Mahound, I behold a dark
passage into this dismal room! 'Slife! there is
a current of air rushing from this open space—
what may it mean?”

“Dost wish to hide the corse? Eh—most noble
captain? Lay hold of t'other end o' th' coffin.
and I will raise this end. We'll bear it to the
stone-room!”

In a moment they raised the coffin, and bearing
it toward the open space, Balvardo retreated backwards,
through the passage, and in another instant
was lost to view, while the foot of the coffin
still projected into the dungeon-cell.

“Bear it through the passage, Glow-worm!”
cried Balvardo. “In a moment we will have it
laid along the floor of this dreary place!”

“It is heavy,” cried the old man; “my strength
fails me. Thou wilt have to bear the burden thyself,
most noble captain! Glow-worm lifts no
heavy burden!”

“Be it so,” growled Balvardo. “'Slife I like
not to be alone with the dead! Slowly, slowly, drag
the coffin along the floor of stone, there—it rests
against the wall! Now for the grave.”

“What dreary sound is that, thundering far
above? Oft have I heard it, yet ne'er could tell
what it might mean?”

“The Convent clock strikes—one!” muttered
Balvardo. “A few moments and my reward is
sure!”

“Beware the secret spring!” shrieked the old man,
as tho' his crazed mind had been fixed by some
sudden thought. “Beware the secret spring! It
sticks from the floor near the very wall, where
thou hast laid the coffin. An' thy foot presses
the spring the stone rolls back, and—he, he, he—
thou art buried alive!”

It was too late! Even as the old man spoke, Balvardo
stumbled along the floor of the stone-room
his foot pressed the point of iron projecting from
the floor, and the massive rock rolled back to its
place, in the masonry of the substantial wall.

“I fear, I fear,” murmured the old man gazing
around with an affrighted look; “I fear they,” pointing
above, “they will lash me for this! He, he,
he! I bade him beware of the spring within the
stone room, and he would not. I cannot turn
this bolt, the old man is not strong enough. Ha,
ha, here is a torch; Glow-worm has not had a torch
in his hand for years! Ho, ho, ho, the noble captain
came here to bury the dead, and, ho, ho, ho,
he is buried alive!”