THE DOOM.
The young man was conveyed from the chamber by his two athletic
conductors, the door closed upon the deliberations of the stern
tribunal who were just about to debate upon the question of his life or
death, and he was led round the corner of a lobby, a few steps from the
chamber where his judges sat; a stout door in the wall was pushed open
and he himself thrust through it into a cold, empty apartment, in
perfect darkness, and the door shut and barred behind him.
Here, in solitude and darkness, the horrors of his situation rushed
upon him with tremendous and overwhelming reality. His life was in the
hands of fierce and relentless men, by whom, he had little doubt, he
was already judged and condemned; bound and helpless, he must await,
without the power of hastening or of deferring his fate by a single
minute, the cold-blooded deliberations of the conclave who sat within.
Unable even to hear the progress of the debate on whose result his life
was suspended, a faint and dizzy sickness came upon him, and the cold
dew burst from every pore; ghastly, shapeless images of horror hurried
with sightless speed across his mind, and his brain throbbed with the
fearful excitement of madness. With a desperate effort he roused his
energies; but what could human ingenuity, even sharpened by the
presence of urgent and terrific danger, suggest or devise? His hands
were firmly bound behind his back; in vain he tugged with all his
strength, in the fruitless hope of disengaging the cords which crushed
them together. He groaned in downright agony as, strength and hope
exhausted, he gave up the desperate attempt; nothing then could be
done; there remained for him no hope--no chance. In this horrible
condition he walked with slow steps to and fro in the dark chamber, in
vain endeavouring to compose his terrible agitation.
"Were my hands but free," thought he, "I should let the villains know
that against any odds a resolute man may sell his life dearly. But it
is in vain to struggle; they have bound me here but too securely."
[Illustration: "He made his way to the aperture."
_To face page 223._]
Thus saying, he leaned himself against the partition, to await,
passively, the event which he knew could not be far distant. The
surface against which he leaned was not that of the wall--it yielded
slightly to his pressure--it was a door. With his knee and shoulder he
easily forced it open, and entered another chamber, at the far-side of
which he distinctly saw a stream of light, which, passing through a
chink, fell upon the opposite wall, and, at the same time, he clearly
heard the muffled sound of voices in debate. He made his way to the
aperture through which the light found entrance, and as he did so, the
sound of the voices fell more and more distinctly upon his ear. A small
square, of about two feet each way, was cut in the wall, affording an
orifice through which, probably, the closet in which he stood was
imperfectly lighted in the daytime. A plank shutter was closed over
this, and barred upon the outside, through the imperfect joints of
which the light had found its way, and O'Connor now scanned the
contents of the outer chamber. It was that in which the assembly, in
whose presence he had, but a few minutes before, been standing, were
congregated. A low, broad-shouldered man, whose dress was that of
mourning, and who wore his own hair, which descended in meagre ringlets
of black upon either side, leaving the bald summit of his head exposed,
and who added to the singularity of his appearance not a little by a
long, thick beard, which covered his chin and upper lip--this man, who
sat nearly opposite to the opening through which O'Connor looked, was
speaking and addressing himself to some person who stood, as it
appeared, divided by little more than the thickness of the wall from
the party whose life he was debating.
"And against all this," continued the speaker, "what weighs the life of
one man--one life, at best useless to the country, and useless to the
king--at _best_, I say? What came we here for? No light matter to take
in hand, sirs; to be pursued with no small risk; each comes hither,
_cinctus gladio_, in the cause of the king. That cause with our own
lives we are bound to maintain; and why not, if need be, at the cost of
the lives of others? No good can come of sparing this fellow--at the
best, no advantage to the cause: and, on the other hand, should he
prove a traitor, a spy, or even an idle babbler, the heaviest damage
may befall us. Tush, tush, gentlemen, it is ill straining at gnats in
such times. We are here a court-martial, or no court at all. If I find
that such dangerous vacillation as this carries it in your councils, I
shall, for one, henceforward hang my sword over the mantel-piece, and
obey the new laws. What! one life against such a risk--one execution,
to save the cause and secure us all. To us, who have served in the
king's wars, and hanged rebels by the round dozen--even on suspicion of
being so--such indecision seems incredible. There ought not to be two
words about the matter. Put him to death."
Having thus acquitted himself, this somewhat unattractive personage
applied himself, with much industry and absorption, to the task of
chopping, shredding, rolling up, and otherwise preparing a piece of
tobacco for the bowl of his pipe.
"I confess," said someone whom O'Connor could not see, "that in
pleading what may be said on behalf of this young man, I have no ground
to go upon beyond a mere instinctive belief in the poor fellow's
honesty, and in the truth of his story."
"Pardon me, sir," replied one in whose voice O'Connor thought he
recognized that of the priest, "if I say, that to act upon such
fanciful impressions, as if they were grounded upon evidence, were, in
nine cases out of every ten, the most transcendent and mischievous
folly. I repeat my own conviction, upon something like satisfactory
evidence, that he is _not_ honest. I talked with the fellow this
evening--perhaps a little too freely--but in that conference, if he
lied not, I learned that he belonged to that most dangerous class--the
worst with whom we have to contend--the lukewarm, professing, passive
Catholics--the very stuff of which the worst kind of spies and
informers are made. He, no doubt, guessed, from what I said--for, to be
plain with you, I spoke too freely by a great deal, in the belief, I
know not how assumed, that he was one of ourselves--he guessed, I say,
something of the nature of my mission, and tracked me hither--at all
events, by some strange coincidence, hither he came. It is for you to
weigh the question of probabilities."
"It matters not, in my mind, why or how he came hither," observed the
ill-favoured gentleman, who sate at the head of the table; "he _is_
here, and he hath seen our meeting, and could identify many of us. This
is too large a confidence to repose in a stranger, and I for one do not
like it, and therefore I say let him be killed without any more parley
or debate."
The old man paused, and a silence followed. With an agonized attention,
O'Connor listened for one word or movement of dissent; it came not.
"All agreed?" said the bearded hero, preparing to light his tobacco
pipe at the candle. "Well, so I expected."
The little man who had spoken before him knocked sharply with the butt
of a pistol upon the table, and O'Connor heard the door of the room
open. The same person beckoned with his hand, and one of the stalwart
men who had assisted in securing him, advanced to the foot of the
board.
"Let a grave be digged in the orchard," said he, "and when it is ready,
bring the prisoner out and despatch him, Let it be all done and the
grave closed in half an hour."
The man made a rude obeisance, and left the room in silence.
Bound as he was, O'Connor traced the four walls of the room, in the
vague hope that he might discover some other outlet from the chamber
than that which he had just entered. But in vain; nothing encountered
him but the hard, cold wall; and even had it been otherwise, thus
helplessly manacled, what would it have availed him? He passed into the
room into which he had been first thrust by the two guards, and in a
state little short of frenzy, he cast himself upon the floor.
"Oh God!" said he, "it is terrible to see death thus creeping toward
me, and not to have the power to help myself. I am doomed--my life
already devoted, and before another hour I shall lie under the clay, a
corpse. Is there nothing to be done--no hope, no chance? Oh, God!
nothing!"
As he lay in this strong agony, he heard, or thought he heard, the
clank of the spade upon the stony soil without. The work was begun--the
grave was opened. Madly he strained at the cords--he tugged with more
than human might--but all in vain. Still with horrible monotony he
heard the clank of the iron mattock tinkling and clanking in the
gravelly soil. Oh! that he could have stopped his ears to exclude the
maddening sound. The pulses smote upon his brain like floods of fire.
With closed eyes, and teeth set, and hands desperately clenched, he
drew himself together, in the awful spasms of uncontrollable horror.
Suddenly this fearful paroxysm departed, and a kind of awful calm
supervened. It was no dull insensibility to his real situation, but a
certain collectedness and calm self-possession, which enabled him to
behold the grim adversary of human kind, even arrayed in all the
terrors of his nearest approach, with a steady eye.
"After all, when all's done, what have I to lose? Life had no more joys
for me--happy I could never more have been. Why should the miserable
dread death, and cling to life like cowards? What is it? A brief
struggle--the agony of a few minutes--the instinctive yearnings of our
nature after life; and this over, comes rest--eternal quiet."
He then endeavoured, in prayer, earnestly to commend his spirit to its
Maker. While thus employed he heard steps upon the hard tiles of the
passage. His heart swelled as though it would burst. He rightly guessed
their mission. The bolt was slowly drawn; the dusky light of a lantern
streamed into the room, and revealed upon the threshold the forms of
three tall men.
"Lift him up--rise him, boys," said he who carried the lantern.
"You must come with us," said one of the two who advanced to O'Connor.
Resistance was fruitless, and he offered none. A cold, sick,
overwhelming horror unstrung his joints and dimmed his sight. He
suffered them to lead him passively from the room.