Guilty Bonds

“What is my sentence?”

“You know better than I,” he growled. “Indeed, I do not. Tell me; is it death?”

“No; the death sentence has been abolished by order of the Czar. Criminals are tortured to death instead of being killed instantaneously by hanging.”

“And is this the commencement of my torture?” I asked, glancing round the glistening walls, that looked black and unwholesome in the flickering lamplight.

“You may call it so, if you like,” he replied.

“Many prisoners would no doubt prefer the death sentence being passed upon them – but that the law now forbids.”

“Shall I never leave this horrible place?” I asked.

“Shall I never again see the blessed light of day?”

“Yes,” he muttered, ominously, “you will leave here – some day – never to return.”

I said no more. I knew he meant that when I left the prison I should be dead.

Torture till death! This, then, was my sentence! The words were continually passing through my brain, attacking me whilst waking, and intruding themselves upon my spasmodic attempts to sleep; appearing in my dreams in all their hideousness.

Even when I awakened to realise the terrible reality that surrounded me, those four bare walls, coarse clothes, straw pallet, and the monotonous tramp of the sentry in the corridor outside my door, the words rang a continuous, demoniacal chorus in my ears. Torture till death!

In my solitary confinement I naturally began to seek some means by which to occupy attention and divert my mind from the unjust and horrible sentence.

One matter interested me in a dreamy, indifferent way. It was the inscriptions that had been traced upon the damp walls of my gloomy cell, presumably by former occupants.

Having been in darkness so long, I had developed an acute sensitiveness in the tips of my fingers, almost in the same manner as the blind; and for recreation I took to groping about, feeling the indentations upon the stone, and trying to sketch their appearance mentally.

Hours – nay, days – I spent in this grim but interesting occupation, studying carefully the initials, dates, and other inscriptions, and after I had formed a correct picture in my imagination, I would sit down, wondering by whose hand those letters had been graven; what was the prisoner’s crime; and how long he had lived in that terrible tomb.

The persons who had been confined there before me must have been legion, for the walls seemed literally covered with words and symbols, some well defined, others only scratched roughly and almost obliterated by the thick slime which covered them. So interested was I in their study that, after a short time, I had gained a pretty accurate knowledge of the appearance and position of most of them. Some had written their names in full, with the date; one had drawn a gallows, and many had inscribed lines of words like poetry, but as they were in Russian I was unable to read them.

I confess, though I gave up the greater portion of every day to the investigation of the self-executed epitaphs of those who had gone before, I made but little progress in their meaning.

Still, they served to occupy my time, and for that alone I was thankful.

I had gone methodically to work in my strange researches, commencing at the door, and taking them one by one from the floor upwards, as far as I could reach. The advancement I made was not great; in fact, I was purposely slow, and took a considerable time over the examination of each one, because I wanted my task to last as long as possible.

Of those upon the sides of the cell I had formed a fairly distinct mental picture, and one day while engaged upon the wall opposite the door groping along as usual, my hand passed over a circular indentation cut deeply in the stone, which I judged to be about six inches in circumference. It was on a level with my head, and by the first touch I distinguished it was entirely different from the others, both in form, size, and general character.

Interested in this discovery, I proceeded to make a minute investigation with the tips of the fingers of both hands.

There were two circles, the one inside the other, about an inch apart, and I felt some writing in the intervening space. Round the circle I ran my fingers; the inscription was not profuse, only nine ill-formed letters.

“The name of some prisoner, perhaps,” I said to myself, as I carefully passed my finger over each letter, and tried to picture it upon my mind.

The first was of so strange a form that I could make nothing out of it, so passed on to the next. This seemed like a small thin line, crooked half-way down; the next was straight, like a figure one, and the next very similar, and so on, until I came to the one I had examined first.

Disappointed because I could not decipher a single character of what seemed hieroglyphics, I passed my hand over the whole in an endeavour to gain a general impression of it, when I found the centre of the circle was occupied by some large solid device.

I felt again. It bore some resemblance to the letter T inverted, and then momentarily, there flashed across my mind the thought that I had somewhere seen an emblem of similar appearance.

Eagerly I ran my hands over it, carefully fingering the centre, and trying to form a clearer idea of what it was like, when I suddenly recollected where I had met its exact counterpart.

“Yes, there is no mistake,” I said in an awed whisper, once more fingering it in breathless excitement.

“The characters must be the same; the centre is the same; it differs in no particular. It is the Seal!”

I stood almost terrified at the unearthly sound of my own words.

Here, in this foul prison, amid all these gruesome surroundings, I had made a strange discovery!

I had deciphered an exact reproduction of the curious seal found upon the body of the woman who had been so mysteriously murdered on that eventful night in Bedford Place – the fatal emblem over which the police of Europe and America had been so puzzled.

The disclosure brought vividly to my mind recollections of the murder which, by rare chance, I detected, and I asked myself whether Fate had decreed that a sketch of the seal should be graven upon the wall of my dungeon.

I am neither a visionary, nor am I superstitious, yet it is probable that my gloomy thoughts, combined with my solitary imprisonment, the lack of exercise, and the horrors of my cell, had produced a slight attack of fever; for while I was musing it seemed as if the mystic symbols assumed divers grotesque shapes, the outlines of which glowed like fire, and that by my side were hideous grinning demons, who assumed a threatening attitude towards me.

My breathing became difficult, my head swam, and I sank backward upon the stone seat.

I may have been insensible, or perhaps only sleeping soundly, when there came a jingling of keys, and a harsh grating of bolts. This aroused me.

“Get up,” commanded the jailer; “follow me.”

I rose, my hands trembling and my teeth chattering so that I could hardly re-arrange my clothes.

What fresh torture was in store for me? I dreaded to think.

At the first step I attempted to take I staggered and almost fell, but recovering myself, followed the turnkey.

After examining my fetters to make certain of their security, he led me through a long dark passage, up a flight of steps, down another, and through some intricate places, little more than tunnels. Unlocking a door, he bade me enter.

I did so, and found myself in a square cell, damp, and pitch dark, like my own. We had been joined by another jailer in our walk through the corridor, and both men entered with me.

As the lantern-light fell upon the straw I saw the cell was occupied; a man was lying there, fully dressed, and apparently asleep.

“Prisoner,” said the jailer, “take the clothes from off that man, dress yourself in them, and afterwards put your own on him.”

“But he will wake,” I said.

“Do as I bid,” growled the man; “and look sharp; or it will be the worse for you.”

For a moment I did not move. I felt dazed.

“Now; do you hear?” cried he angrily, shaking me roughly by the arm.

I stooped over the prostrate man in order to unbutton the collar of his coarse coat, but in doing so my hand touched his chin. I withdrew it as if I had been stung, for it sent a thrill of horror through me. It was cold as ice.