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wretch, whoe’er thou art, that readest these lines, fall on thy knees, and invoke as I have done, His sustaining mercy, who alone can nerve thee to meet the vengeance of Tolfi, armed with his tremendious engine, which in a few hours must crush you as it will the needy wretch that made it.”
A deep groan burst from Vivenzio. He stood like one transfixed, with dilated eyes, expanded nostrils, and quivering lips, gazing at at this fatal inscription. It was as if a voice from the sepulchre had sounded in his ears, “Prepare!” Hope forsook him. There was his sentence, recorded in these dismal words. The future stood unveiled before him, ghastly and appalling. His brain already feels the descending horror,—his bones seemed to crack and crumble in the mighty grasp of the iron walls! Unknowing what it is he does, he fumbles in his garment for some weapon of self-destruction. He clenches his throat in his convulsive gripe, as though he would strangle himself at once. He stares upon the walls, and his warring spirit demands, “Will they not anticipate their office if I dash my head against them?” An hysterical laugh chokes him as he exclaims, “why should I? He was but a man who died first in their fierce embrace; and I should be less than man not to do as much?”
The evening sun was descending, and Vivenzio beheld its golden beams streaming
