BOOK EIGHTH.
CHAPTER 4. LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA--LEAVE ALL HOPE BEHIND, YE WHO ENTER HERE.
(continued)
This drop of water falling from time to time into that pool,
was the only movement which still went on around her, the
only clock which marked the time, the only noise which
reached her of all the noise made on the surface of the earth.
To tell the whole, however, she also felt, from time to time,
in that cesspool of mire and darkness, something cold passing
over her foot or her arm, and she shuddered.
How long had she been there? She did not know. She
had a recollection of a sentence of death pronounced somewhere,
against some one, then of having been herself carried
away, and of waking up in darkness and silence, chilled to
the heart. She had dragged herself along on her hands.
Then iron rings that cut her ankles, and chains had rattled.
She had recognized the fact that all around her was wall, that
below her there was a pavement covered with moisture and a
truss of straw; but neither lamp nor air-hole. Then she had
seated herself on that straw and, sometimes, for the sake of
changing her attitude, on the last stone step in her dungeon.
For a while she had tried to count the black minutes measured
off for her by the drop of water; but that melancholy
labor of an ailing brain had broken off of itself in her
head, and had left her in stupor.
At length, one day, or one night, (for midnight and midday
were of the same color in that sepulchre), she heard above her
a louder noise than was usually made by the turnkey when he
brought her bread and jug of water. She raised her head,
and beheld a ray of reddish light passing through the crevices
in the sort of trapdoor contrived in the roof of the inpace.
At the same time, the heavy lock creaked, the trap grated
on its rusty hinges, turned, and she beheld a lantern, a hand,
and the lower portions of the bodies of two men, the door
being too low to admit of her seeing their heads. The light
pained her so acutely that she shut her eyes.
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