The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1867-11-01

| The rattle of wheels had died cut OF
the air when Philip opened his eyes, be-
, wildered, like man abruptly reused
, from slumber. He raised himself on
, one arm and stared into the surrounding
blackness. Where was he? In Sec
!, ond the truth flashed upon him. He
! had been left in the tomb! While kneel-
ing on the farther side of the stone box,
J perhaps he had tainted, and in the last
solemn rites his absence had been unno-
tced.
His first emotion was one of natural
terror. But this passed as quickly as it
came. Life had ceased to be so very
precious to him and if it were his fate
to die at jules side, was not that the
fulfilment of the desire which he had
expressed to himself hundred times
that morning? What did 1t matter, a
few years sooner or later? lie must
lay down the burden at last. Why not
then? a pang of self-reproach followed
the thought. Could he so lightly throw
aside the love that had bent over his
cradle. The sacred name of mother
rose involuntarily to his lips. Was it
not cowardly to yield up without
struggle the life which he should guard
for her sake? Was it not his duty to
the living and the dead to face the diff
ficulties Of his position, and overcome
them if it were within his power?
With an organization as delicate as
| VI NJ hp hoI ha rit ;oL
ever sluggish in repose, can leap with
kind of exultation to measure its
strength with disaster. The vague fear
of the supernatural, that would affect
most men in similar situation, found
no room within his heart. He was sim
ply shut in a chamber from which it
was necessary that he should obtain re-
lease within given period. That this
chamber contained the body of the wo-
man he loved, so far from adding to the
terror of his case, was a circumstance
from which he drew consolation. She
was beautiful white statue now. Her
soul was far hence; and if that pure
spirit could return, would it not be to
shield him with her love? 1t was i'm
possible that the place should not en-
gender some thought of the kind. He
did not put the thought entirely from
him as he rose to his feet and stretched
out his hands in the darkness but his
mind was too healthy and practical to
indulge long in such speculations.
Philip CHANGED to have in his pocket
a box of waX-tapers which smokers use.
After several Intellectual attempts, he
succeeded in igniting one against the
dark wall, and by its momentary glare
perceived that the candle had been left
in the tomb. This would serve him in
examining the fastenings of the vault
If he could force the inner door by any
means, and reach the grating of which
he had an indistinct recollection, he
, might hope to make himself heard.
But the oaken door was immovable, a.
solid as the wall itself, into which it fit
ted air-tight. Even if he had had the
requisite tools, there were no fastenings
to be removed the hinges were set or
the outside.
Having ascertained this, he replaced
the candle on the floor, and leaned
against the wall thoughtfully, watching
the blue fan Of flame that wavered tC
: and fro, threatening to detach itsel
, from the wick. "At all events" h,
thought, "the place is ventilated" Sud
denly Philip sprang forward and extin
; guished the light. His existence de
pended on that candle
, He had read somewhere, in some ac
count of shipwreck, how the survivor,
had lived for days upon few candles
which one of the passengers had insane
ly thrown into the long-boat. And here
he had been burning away his very
life.
BY the transient illumination of one
of the tapers, he looked at his watch
1t had stopped at eleven,--but at eleven
that day, or the preceding night? The
funeral, he knew, had left the church at
ten. How many hours had passed since
then? OF what duration had been his
swoon? Alas it was no longer posi-.
BILE for him to measure those hours
which crawl like snails by the wretched
and fly like swallows over the happy.
He picked up the candle, and seated
himself on the stone steps. He was q
sanguine man, this Wentworth, but, as
he weighed the chances of escape, the
prospect did not seem encouraging. OF
conrse he would be missed. His disap-
pearance under the circumstances would
surely alarm his friends; they would
instigate search for him; but who
would think of searching for live man
in the cemetery of Montmartre? The
Prefect Of Police would set Il hundred
intelligences at work to find him. the
Seine might be dragged, les miserabies
turned over at the dead house: min.
ute description of him would be in ev.
cry detectives pocket; and he-in NJ
Dorine's family tomb!
Yet, on the other hand it was here ht
was last seen; from this point Il keen
detective would naturally work up the
, case. Then might not the undertaken
! return for the candlestick, probably no
: left by design? Or, again, might not
M. Dorine send fresh wreaths of flow
ers, to take the place of those which
, now dlffused II pungent, aromatic odol
throughout the chamber? All! wha
( unlikely chances! But If one of thes'
things did not happen speedily, 1t hat
r better never happen. How long coulc
he keep life in himself?
With unaccelerated pulse, he quietl,
, cut the half-burned candle into fou
= equal parts. "To-night," he meditated
Y 81 will eat the first of these pieces; to
} morrow, the second; tomorrow even
ing, the third the next day the fourth
Y and then then I'll wait"
G He had taken no break fast that morn