imself "to the death," and is
resolved to make his escape, and seek revenge of his enemies. It is
evening. Dark festoons of clouds hang over the city, lambent lightning
plays along the heavens in the south. Now it flashes across the city,
the dull panorama lights up, the tall, gaunt steeples gleam out, and the
surface of the Bay flashes out in a phosphoric blaze. Patiently and
diligently has he filed, and filed, and filed, until he has removed the
bar that will give egress to his body. The window of his cell overlooks
the ditch, beyond which is the prison wall. Noiselessly he arranges the
rope, for he is in the third story, then paces his cell, silent and
thoughtful. "Must it be?" he questions within himself, "must I stain
these hands with the blood of the woman I love? Revenge, revenge--I will
have revenge. I will destroy both of them, for to-morrow I am to be
dragged a third time to the whipping-post." Now he casts a glance round
the dark cell, now he pauses at the window, now the lightning courses
along the high wall, then reflects back the deep ditch. Another moment,
and he has commenced his descent. Down, down, down, he lowers himself.
Now he holds on tenaciously, the lightning reflects his dangling figure,
a prisoner in a lower cell gives the alarm, he hears the watchword of
his discovery pass from cell to cell, the clashing of the keeper's door
grates upon his ear like thunder--he has reached the end of his rope,
and yet hangs suspended in the air. A heavy fall is heard, he has
reached the ditch, bounds up its side to the wall, seizes a pole, and
places against it, and, with one vault, is over into the open street.
Not a moment is to be lost. Uproar and confusion reigns throughout the
prison, his keepers have taken the alarm, and will soon be on his track,
pursuing him with ferocious hounds. Burning for revenge, and yet
bewildered, he sets off at full speed, through back lanes, over fields,
passing in his course the astonished guardmen. He looks neither to the
right nor the left, but speeds on toward the grove. Now he reaches the
bridge that crosses the millpond, pauses for breath, then proceeds on.
Suddenly a light from the villa Anna occupies flashes out. He has
crossed the bridge, bounds over the little hedge-grown avenue, through
the garden, and in another minute stands before her, a pistol pointed at
her breast, and all the terrible passions of an enraged fiend darkening
his countenance. Her implorings for mer