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The night came; and as the hour approached when Vivenzio imagined he might expect the signs, he stood fixed and silent as a statue. He feared to breathe, almost, lest he might lose any sound which would warn him of their coming. While thus listening, with every faculty of mind and body strained to an agony of attention, it occured to him he should be more sensible of the motion, probably, if he stretched himself along the iron floor. He accordingly laid himself softly down, and had not been long in that position when—yes —he was certain of it—the floor moved under him! He sprang up, and in a voice suffocated nearly with emotion called, aloud. He paused—the motion ceased—he felt no stream of air all was hushed—no voice answered to his—he burst into tears; and as he sunk to the ground, in renewed anguish, exclamed,—“Oh, my God! my God! You alone have power to save me now, or strengthen me for the trial you permit.”
Another morning dawned upon the wretched captive, and the fatal index of his doom met his eyes. Two windows! and two days, and all would be over! Fresh food, fresh water! The mysterious visit had been paid, though he had implored it in vain. But how awfully was his prayer answered in what he now saw! The roof of the dungeon was within a foot his head. The two ends were so near, that in six paces he trod
