Chapter THE SEVENTH: The Coffin and the Corse

THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE, AND THE SWORDER SEALS HIS FATE BY A TOUCH OF THE FATAL SPRING.

Far beneath the Convent, down in the very bosom of the earth, far beneath the chamber of the death-bowl, alone and in darkness, rested the coffin and the corse for the space of an hour, awaiting the spade and the Sexton, the priest with his prayers, and the grave with its silence.

The sound of trampling feet, broke along the silence of the earth hidden passage, and presently, through the crevices of the dungeon door, thin rays of light streamed along the cell.

Then there was drawing of bolts, and rattling of chains, and in an instant the ruddy glare of torches, revealed the ill-looking form of Balvardo, standing in the doorway, and beside him stood a short, thin old man, with slight locks of gray hair, falling upon his coarse doublet.

There was a vacant and wandering expression in his eye, while his parched lips, hanging apart, gave an idiotic appearance to his countenance. The long, talon-like fingers of his withered right hand, grasped a spade covered with rust, and eaten by time.

“Ha--ha!” laughed Balvardo. “The potion which I gave _her_, some hours ago, wrapt her in a sleep, like the slumber of old death. Blood o’ the Turk, how her hands clutched the body o’ the dead, when I first tried to tear it from her arms--even in her sleep she clutched it! I have him at last--sound and sure! He escaped me in the cell of the Doomed, escaped this sword in the Cavern of the Dead, and--and--now, by the fiend I have him at last!”

The Sworder advanced to the Coffin, he gazed upon the pale face of the dead, with a long and anxious look.

“He, he, he,” chuckled the old man. “Why did thou hate him, noble Captain?”

“I know not,” muttered Balvardo, with an absent air, “yet I always had a sneaking suspicion that one day or other, this man, now a corse, would work my death! A queer feeling always haunted me, that made me feel like the felon walking to his doom, so long as this--father-murderer remained alive! Now he is dead, but I fear him yet, and will fear him till he is safely buried i’ the earth!”

“Thou wouldst cover his face with this rich, yellow earth?” sneered the ancient man,--“He, he, he! The grave hides all secrets!”

“To thy duty, Old Gibber-jabber,” exclaimed Balvardo, “Here’s thy man. Lay hold of him, and help me to drag the coffin to the other side of the dungeon. Pull him along--there--there!”

Throwing the coffin upon the damp earth, the old man placed a smoking lamp near the prostrate head of the corse, and then intently watched the motions of Balvardo, who was drawing the point of his sword along the surface of the earth.

“Let me do’t, let me do’t, most noble captain,” exclaimed the old man, pushing Balvardo aside,--“for years, and years, and years, man and boy, have I wielded this good spade, here in these nice, cozy, comfortable chambers! He--he--he! To think a fellow like thee, with that miserable tool, that is unworthy to be called a--spade--to think that a stranger like thee, should think to excel me--Old Glow-worm--in laying out a grave!--He--he--he!”

“Old Glow-worm!--Ha, ha, ha!--a choice name by my soul!”

“A very good name; _they_ call me so--they who bring me food every day--they poke it through the big door through which thou didst pass, most noble captain. A merry time we’ve had of it here--a merry time!”

“_We!_--who dost thou mean?”

“Well! Thou art a fool, beshrew me!--_we_, I and my comrades, who always receive our food at the big iron door. Here, long, long, very long, we have lived in these nice cozy chambers.--Sometimes _they_ fight and kill one another--then I dig their graves! See! how nicely the rich earth turns up! This is a spade!”

Prattling after this fashion, the poor old idiot turned up the earth till he stood in a square hole about a foot in depth, when a glance at the pale visage of Adrian arrested his attention.

“He, he, he! _They always look so!_--Queer,--eh, noble captain!”

“What! hast ever had any other business of this sort?”

“Why, bless ye, most noble captain, I’ve put scores and scores of them under the rich, yellow earth. _They_ bring ’em to me--_they_ at the big iron door. This is earth for ye! Look! how the spade sinks into the mould!--He, he, he!”

“What an old devil!” muttered Balvardo to himself. “How canst thou be merry in these gloomy pits! eh, Old One!”

“Merry?--He, he, he! _Merry_ didst say, why bless ye, when I and my comrades gather round our food, I am as merry as is the sound of this spade, driving into the earth! Merry! why I sing, most noble captain, I sing!”

“_Thou_ sing! Ha, ha, ha! Thou, indeed!”

“Why not I, eh? Beshrew me but thou art a fool! I can sing such a right mirthful song--but they never like it--they my comrades!”

“By Saint Peter, I’ll wager a stoup of wine, that thou didst never see the light of day--eh, old rat?”

“_Day!_ what is that?--But for my song--here goes!”

And then busily plying the spade, in a cracked voice he sang the following words, in a sort of wild chaunt, which he occasionally varied by sounds that resembled the yell of a screech-owl.

THE SONG OF THE ANCIENT MAN.[8]

DIG THE GRAVE AND DIG IT DEEP.

Dig the grave and dig it deep--
Straight with the mattock dig each side,
Dig it low, and dig it steep--
Dig it long and dig it wide!

As he sang, the old man plunged the spade lustily into the earth, and throwing aside the large lumps of clay, he continued with great glee--

Here while nations rise and fall,
Here while ages glide,
Here wrapt within its earthy pall,
Must the crumbling corse abide!
Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home--the grave!

He wound this up with an unnatural noise, half shriek, and half yell, and the hollow and dread dungeon arches gave back the strain.

“He, he, he!--I know a merrier catch than that! List ye, my noble captain.”

He then made a motion with his hand, as if in the act of drinking, and then a shout of wild laughter sounded through the cell.

Ha, ha! Ha, ha!--Drink to the full,
Drink to the sound of the clanking bone;
Fill high with wine the fleshless skull,
And swell the toast without a moan--

Hurra! for Death with his bony hands,
Hurra! for Death with his skeleton form,
He holds the thunderbolt.--On high he stands,
He mows them down in calm or storm--

He swept his spade around with maniac glee, and then in a voice louder and shriller, while his shrunken breast heaved with the wildness of his emotion, he sang,

Then raise the chaunt,
Then swell the stave,
Here’s to Death, all grim and gaunt,
And to his home--the grave.

“A brave song! Ha, ha, ha! By my faith a brave song! Where didst pick it up, Old Screech-Owl, eh?”

“Glow-worm is my name,” replied the other demurely,--“Glow-worm--ah! but this is rich earth! Look! what big, lusty clumps. He, he, he! How cold and pale he looks--he that I am to bury--See!”

“He doth look cold and pale!” muttered Balvardo. “Is the grave deep enough, Devil-darkness? Let’s house him in’ th’ earth without delay.”

“The grave scarce reaches to my middle--deeper let us dig it, noble captain--deeper!”

“I tell thee, Devil-darkness, I cannot look upon the cold and stony face of the dead! Deeper thou mayest dig the grave--but the body must be hidden from sight in the meanwhile. ‘Slife--I left my cloak in the vaults above, and I have no robe to throw over the coffin!”

“He--he--he, thou’rt a brave man, yet poor old Glow-worm knows more than thee! Look around the cell, most noble captain, and tell me what thou see’st!”

“I see the rough walls of stone, the roof of rock, the floor of clay. Not a whit more, by the Fiend!”

“Look again--pass thine eyes along the wall opposite yon oaken door. What see’st thou now, most noble captain?”

“I see a bolt of iron, rusted and time-eaten, projecting from the wall--”

“Wouldst know how to open a passage into the stone room, next to this cell? Move the bolt quickly to and fro, and yon massy stone will roll back into the stone-room! Thou canst lay the coffin within its walls, until the grave is deep enow.”

“The bolt moves--ha! The stone, the massive stone glides from the wall--another push at the bolt! There--blood o’ Mahound, I behold a dark passage into this dismal room! ‘Slife! there is a current of air rushing from this open space--what may it mean?”

“Dost wish to hide the corse? Eh--most noble captain? Lay hold of t’other end o’ th’ coffin, and I will raise this end. We’ll bear it to the stone-room!”

In a moment they raised the coffin, and bearing it toward the open space, Balvardo retreated backwards, through the passage, and in another instant was lost to view, while the foot of the coffin still projected into the dungeon-cell.

“Bear it through the passage, Glow-worm!” cried Balvardo. “In a moment we will have it laid along the floor of this dreary place!”

“It is heavy,” cried the old man; “my strength fails me. Thou wilt have to bear the burden thyself, most noble captain! Glow-worm lifts no heavy burden!”

“Be it so,” growled Balvardo. “Slife I like not to be alone with the dead! Slowly, slowly, drag the coffin along the floor of stone, there--it rests against the wall! Now for the grave.”

“What dreary sound is that, thundering far above? Oft have I heard it, yet ne’er could tell what it might mean?”

“The Convent clock strikes--one!” muttered Balvardo. “A few moments and my reward is sure!”

“Beware the secret spring!” shrieked the old man, as though his crazed mind had been fixed by some sudden thought. “Beware the secret spring! It sticks from the floor near the very wall, where thou hast laid the coffin. An’ thy foot presses the spring the stone rolls back, and--he, he, he--_thou art buried alive_!”

It was too late! Even as the old man spoke, Balvardo stumbled along the floor of the stone-room, his foot pressed the point of iron projecting from the floor, and the massive rock rolled back to its place, in the masonry of the substantial wall.

“I fear, I fear,” murmured the old man, gazing around with an affrighted look; “I fear _they_,” pointing above, “_they_ will lash me for this! He, he, he! I bade him beware of the spring within the stone-room, and he would not. I cannot turn this bolt, the old man is not strong enough. Ha, ha, here is a torch; Glow-worm has not had a torch in his hand for years! Ho, ho, ho, the noble captain came here to bury the dead, and, ho, ho, ho, he _is buried alive_!”