Guilty Bonds

by William Le Queux

what wasthe 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 welldefined, others only scratched roughly and almost obliterated by thethick slime which covered them. So interested was I in their studythat, after a short time, I had gained a pretty accurate knowledge ofthe appearance and position of most of them. Some had written theirnames in full, with the date; one had drawn a gallows, and many hadinscribed lines of words like poetry, but as they were in Russian I wasunable to read them.

  I confess, though I gave up the greater portion of every day to theinvestigation of the self-executed epitaphs of those who had gonebefore, 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 atthe door, and taking them one by one from the floor upwards, as far as Icould reach. The advancement I made was not great; in fact, I waspurposely slow, and took a considerable time over the examination ofeach 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 distinctmental picture, and one day while engaged upon the wall opposite thedoor groping along as usual, my hand passed over a circular indentationcut deeply in the stone, which I judged to be about six inches incircumference. It was on a level with my head, and by the first touch Idistinguished it was entirely different from the others, both in form,size, and general character.

  Interested in this discovery, I proceeded to make a minute investigationwith 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 Iran my fingers; the inscription was not profuse, only nine ill-formedletters.

  "The name of some prisoner, perhaps," I said to myself, as I carefullypassed 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, crookedhalf-way down; the next was straight, like a figure one, and the nextvery similar, and so on, until I came to the one I had examined first.

  Disappointed because I could not decipher a single character of whatseemed hieroglyphics, I passed my hand over the whole in an endeavour togain a general impression of it, when I found the centre of the circlewas occupied by some large solid device.

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

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

  "Yes, there is no mistake," I said in an awed whisper, once morefingering it in breathless excitement.

  "The characters must be the same; the centre is the same; it differs inno 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 hadmade a strange discovery!

  I had deciphered an exact reproduction of the curious seal found uponthe body of the woman who had been so mysteriously murdered on thateventful night in Bedford Place--the fatal emblem over which the policeof Europe and America had been so puzzled.

  The disclosure brought vividly to my mind recollections of the murderwhich, by rare chance, I detected, and I asked myself whether Fate haddecreed that a sketch of the seal should be graven upon the wall of mydungeon.

  I am neither a visionary, nor am I superstitious, yet it is probablethat my gloomy thoughts, combined with my solitary imprisonment, thelack of exercise, and the horrors of my cell, had produced a slightattack of fever; for while I was musing it seemed as if the mysticsymbols assumed divers grotesque shapes, the outlines of which glowedlike fire, and that by my side were hideous grinning demons, who assumeda threatening attitude towards me.

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

  I may have been insensible, or perhaps only sleeping soundly, when therecame 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 couldhardly 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, butrecovering myself, followed the turnkey.

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

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

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

  "Prisoner," said the jailer, "take the clothes from off that man, dressyourself 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 worsefor 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 hiscoarse coat, but in doing so my hand touched his chin. I withdrew it asif I had been stung, for it sent a thrill of horror through me. It wascold as ice.

  I was to undress a dead man!

  "Why do you hesitate?" the jailer asked gruffly. "Know you not that youmust obey?"

  "This man is dead!" I said, in alarm.

  "And the best thing that could happen to him," was the stern reply."Now, how long am I to wait for you?"

  His companion grinned at my abhorrence of the task, and uttered somewords in Russian, which the other answered.

  It was plain I had to obey my heartless janitor, so, kneeling beside thecorpse, I managed, by dint of some exertion, to divest it of its greykaftan, strong knee boots, and sheepskin bonnet. In these I attiredmyself, afterwards dressing the corpse in my own clothes.

  My new garments were such as I had never seen before, and upon my breastwas a brass plate bearing a number.

  "Now, take these," commanded the turnkey, throwing his light upon somethings in a corner.

  I turned and picked them up.

  There was a rug, a mess tin, and a wooden spoon.

  "What am I to do with these?" I asked.

  "You will want them upon your journey."

  "My journey! Where, then, am I going?"

  "To the mines."

  "To Siberia?" I gasped.

  "Yes," he answered, adding, "Come, follow me."

  I left the side of the dead prisoner and accompanied him back to my owncell.

  I would have preferred death ten thousand times, for I knew, too well,that for the Russian convict is reserved that punishment which istantamount to death by slow torture--a living tomb in the quicksilvermines beyond Tomsk. When sent under the earth he never again sees thesunlight or breathes the fresh air, until a year or so afterwards whenhe is brought to the surface to die.

  Racked by the frightful pain which quicksilver produces, gaunt asskeletons, and with hair and eyebrows dropping off, convicts are kept atlabour under the lash by taskmasters who have orders not to spare them,working eighteen hours at a stretch, and sleeping the remaining six inholes in the rock--mere kennels, into which they must crawl.

  A sentence of Siberian hard labour always m
eans death, for theGovernment are well aware it is an absolute impossibility to live longerthan five years in such horrible torture in the depths of the earth.

  To this terrible existence was I consigned. Was it surprising,therefore, that I hoped--nay, longed--for death instead?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  GRAVEN ON THE WALL.

  I walked back to my cell as one in a dream.

  Engrossed with my own reflections, I neither saw nor heard anythinguntil I found myself seated alone in the dark, damp chamber, with themaddening thought of Vera's treachery and triumph torturing and goadingme to despair.

  I covered my face with my hands, and strove to forget the present and toreview the past.

  As I pondered, the recollection of my childhood's days came back to me.I saw the grey-haired stately lady, my mother, whom I loved, whosecounsel I had ofttimes wisely taken, but who now, alas! was no more. Isaw myself a laughing schoolboy, and later, a rollicking student, one ofa crowd in the Latin