BURIED ALIVE.
Hawbury last vanished from the scene to a place which is but seldom
resorted to by a living man. Once inside of his terrible retreat he
became a prey to feelings of the most varied and harrowing character,
in the midst of which there was a suspense, twofold, agonizing, and
intolerable. First of all, his suspense was for Ethel, and then for
himself. In that narrow and restricted retreat his senses soon became
sharpened to an unusual degree of acuteness. Every touch against it
communicated itself to his frame, as though the wood of his inclosure
had become part of himself; and every sound intensified itself to an
extraordinary degree of distinctness, as though the temporary loss of
vision had been compensated for by an exaggeration of the sense of
hearing. This was particularly the case as the priest drove in the
screws. He heard the shuffle on the stairs, the whisper to Ethel, her
retreat, and the ascending footsteps; while at the same time he was
aware of the unalterable coolness of the priest, who kept calmly at
his work until the very last moment. The screws seemed to enter his
own frame, and the slight noise which was made, inaudible as it was to
others, to him seemed loud enough to rouse all in the house.
Then he felt himself raised and carried down stairs. Fortunately he
had got in with his feet toward the door, and as that end was carried
out first, his descent of the stairs was not attended with the
inconvenience which he might have felt had it been taken down in an
opposite direction.
One fact gave him very great relief, for he had feared that his
breathing would be difficult. Thanks, however, to the precautions of
the priest, he felt no difficulty at all in that respect. The little
bits of wood which prevented the lid from resting close to the coffin
formed apertures which freely admitted all the air that was necessary.
He was borne on thus from the house toward the grave, and heard the
voice of the priest from time to time, and rightly supposed that the
remarks of the priest were addressed not so much to the brigands as to
himself, so as to let him know that he was not deserted. The journey
to the grave was accomplished without any inconvenience, and the
coffin was at length put upon the ground.
Then it was lowered into the grave.
There was something in this which was so horrible to Hawbury that an
involuntary shudder passed through every nerve, and all the terror of
the grave and the bitterness of death in that one moment seemed to
descend upon him. He had not thought of this, and consequently was not
prepared for it. He had expected that he would be put down somewhere
on the ground, and that the priest would be able to get rid of the
men, and effect his liberation before it had gone so far.
It required an effort to prevent himself from crying out; and longer
efforts were needed and more time before he could regain any portion
of his self-control. He now heard the priest performing the burial
rites; these seemed to him to be protracted to an amazing length; and
so, indeed, they were; but to the inmate of that grave the time seemed
longer far than it did to those who were outside. A thousand thoughts
swept through his mind, and a thousand fears swelled within his heart.
At last the suspicion came to him that the priest himself was unable
to do any better, and this suspicion was confirmed as he detected the
efforts which he made to get the men to leave the grave. This was
particularly evident when he pretended to hear an alarm, by which he
hoped to get rid of the brigands. It failed, however, and with this
failure the hopes of Hawbury sank lower than ever.
But the climax of his horror was attained as the first clod fell upon
his narrow abode. It seemed like a death-blow. He felt it as if it had
struck himself, and for a moment it was as though he had been stunned.
The dull, heavy sound which those heard who stood above, to his ears
became transformed and enlarged, and extended to something like a
thunder-peal, with long reverberations through his now fevered and
distempered brain. Other clods fell, and still others, and the work
went on till his brain reeled, and under the mighty emotions of the
hour his reason began to give way. Then all his fortitude and courage
sank. All thought left him save the consciousness of the one horror
that had now fixed itself upon his soul. It was intolerable. In
another moment his despair would have overmastered him, and under its
impulse he would have burst through all restraint, and turned all his
energies toward forcing himself from his awful prison house.
He turned himself over. He gathered himself up as well as he could.
Already he was bracing himself for a mighty effort to burst up the
lid, when suddenly the voice of Girasole struck upon his ear, and a
wild fear for Ethel came to his heart, and the anguish of that fear
checked at once all further thought of himself.
He lay still and listened. He did this the more patiently as the men
also stopped from their work, and as the hideous earth-clods no longer
fell down. He listened. From the conversation he gathered pretty
accurately the state of affairs. He knew that Ethel was there; that
she had been discovered and dragged forth; that she was in danger. He
listened in the anguish of a new suspense. He heard the words of the
priest, his calm denial of treachery, his quiet appeal to Girasole's
good sense. Then he heard the decision of Girasole, and the party
walked away with their prisoners, and he was left alone.
Alone!
At any other time it would have been a terrible thing thus to be left
alone in such a place, but now to him who was thus imprisoned it
afforded a great relief. The work of burial, with all its hideous
accompaniments, was stayed. He could collect his senses and make up
his mind as to what he should do.
Now, first of all, he determined to gain more air if possible. The
earth that had fallen had covered up many of the chinks, so that his
breathing had become sensibly more difficult. His confinement, with
this oppression of his breathing, was intolerable. He therefore braced
himself once more to make an effort. The coffin was large and rudely
constructed, being merely an oblong box. He had more play to his
limbs than he could have had in one of a more regular construction,
and thus he was able to bring a great effort to bear upon the lid. He
pressed. The screws gave way. He lifted it up to some distance. He
drew in a long draught of fresh air, and felt in that one draught that
he received new life and strength and hope.
He now lay still and thought about what he should do next. If it had
only been himself, he would, of course, have escaped in that first
instant, and fled to the woods. But the thought of Ethel detained him.
What was her position; and what could he do to save her? This was his
thought.
He knew that she, together with the priest, was in the hands of four
of the brigands, who were commanded to keep their prisoners safe at
the peril of their lives. Where they were he did not know, nor could
he tell whether she was near or at a distance. Girasole had led them
away.
[Illustration:
"IN AN INSTANT THE OCCUPANT OF THE GRAVE SPRANG FORTH."]
He determined to look out and watch. He perceived that this grave, in
the heart of the brigands' camp, afforded the very safest place in
which he could be for the purpose of watching. Girasole's words had
indicated that the work of burial would not be resumed that night, and
if any passers-by should come they would avoid such a place as this.
Here, then, he could stay until dawn at least, and watch unobserved.
Perhaps he could find where Ethel was guarded; perhaps he could do
something to distract the attention of the brigands, and afford her an
opportunity for flight.
He now arose, and, kneeling in the coffin, he raised the lid. The
earth that was upon it fell down inside. He tilted the lid up, and
holding it up thus with one hand, he put his head carefully out of the
grave, and looked out in the direction where Girasole had gone with
his prisoners. The knoll to which he had led them was a very
conspicuous place, and had probably been selected for that reason,
since it could be under his own observation, from time to time, even
at a distance. It was about half-way between the grave and the nearest
fire, which fire, though low, still gave forth some light, and the
light was in a line with the knoll to Hawbury's eyes. The party on the
knoll, therefore, appeared thrown out into relief by the faint
fire-light behind them, especially the priest and Ethel.
And now Hawbury kept his watch, and looked and listened and waited,
ever mindful of his own immediate neighborhood, and guarding carefully
against any approach. But his own place was in gloom, and no one would
have thought of looking there, so that he was unobserved.
But all his watching gave him no assistance toward finding out any way
of rescuing Ethel. He saw the vigilant guard around the prisoners.
Once or twice he saw a movement among them, but it was soon over, and
resulted in nothing. Now he began to despond, and to speculate in his
mind as to whether Ethel was in any danger or not. He began to
calculate the time that might be required to go for help with which to
attack the brigands. He wondered what reason Girasole might have to
injure Ethel. But whatever hope he had that mercy might be shown her
was counterbalanced by his own experience of Girasole's cruelty, and
his knowledge of his merciless character.
Suddenly he was roused by the rifle-shot and the confusion that
followed. He saw the party on the mound start to their feet. He heard
the shots that succeeded the first one. He saw shadows darting to and
fro. Then the confusion grew worse, and all the sounds of battle
arose--the cries, the shrieks, and the stern words of command.
All this filled him with hope. An attack was being made. They might
all be saved. He could see that the brigands were being driven back,
and that the assailants were pressing on.
Then he saw the party moving from the knoll. It was already much
lighter. They advanced toward him. He sank down and waited. He had no
fear now that this party would complete his burial. He thought they
were flying with the prisoners. If so, the assailants would soon be
here; he could join them, and lead them on to the rescue of Ethel.
He lay low with the lid over him. He heard them close beside him. Then
there was the noise of rushing men, and Girasole's voice arose.
He heard all that followed.
Then Ethel's shriek sounded out, as she sprang toward the grave.
In an instant the occupant of the grave, seizing the lid, raised it
up, and with a wild yell sprang forth.
The effect was tremendous.
The brigands thought the dead Antonio had come to life. They did not
stop to look, but with a howl of awful terror, and in an anguish of
fright, they turned and ran for their lives!
Girasole saw him too, with equal horror, if not greater. He saw
Hawbury. It was the man whom he had killed stone-dead with his own
hand. He was there before him--or was it his ghost? For an instant
horror paralyzed him; and then, with a yell like a madman's, he leaped
back and fled after the others.