ther side.

The sun went down, and the twilight obscured his view, as this was
completed. And now his strength was exhausted, and his swollen and
bleeding hands, from which the flesh hung in shreds, refused their
service. With inexpressible despair he looked at the fourth door, which
opened from the outside, and it was again necessary to cut through the
whole breadth of the door in order to advance.

Worn out and trembling, he seated himself near the door and leaned his
aching head against the cool wood. He sat thus a long time, till he felt
that his blood was flowing more calmly, and the wild, quick beating
of his pulse had subsided--till the pain in his hands and limbs was
quieted, and he had won new strength. He then rose from the floor, took
his knife, and recommenced his work. He moved more slowly than before,
but his work progressed. It could scarcely be midnight, and half the
door was cut through. The moon shed her peerless rays through the little
window and lighted his work, and showed him what remained to be done. In
two hours he would finish, and then remained only the fifth door which
opened on the wall, and which Gefhart assured him was not difficult.
In three hours the work would be done--in three hours he might stand
without, in the fresh, free air of heaven, himself a free and happy man.

With renewed courage and renewed strength, after a short rest, he
went again to work. He thrust his knife into the opening and pressed
powerfully against the wood. Suddenly his hand seemed paralyzed--on the
other side of the door he heard a light clang, and with a hollow cry of
woe, Trenck sank upon the floor. The blade of the knife was broken and
had fallen on the other side. Now he was lost! There was no longer hope
of escape! He rushed to the window; would it not be possible to escape
in that way? No, no! It was not possible to pass through this small
opening.

Trenck sank upon his knees before the window and stared into the
heavens. His pallid lips murmured low words. Were they prayers?--were
they curses?--or was it the death-rattle of dead hopes and dying
liberty? At last he rose from his knees; his face, which had been that
of a corpse, now assumed an expression of firm resolve. Staggering and
creeping along by the wall, he returned to his prison, which he had left
so short a time before full of happy hopes. He reached his bed and laid
down upon it, holding the broken knife in his hand. Not to sleep, not
to res