9
his eyes ached ; he could discover nothing to
explain the mystery. That it was so, he knew.
Why it was so, he racked his imagination in
vain to cojecture. He examined the doors.
A single circumstance convinced him that they
had not been opened.
A wisp of straw, which he had carelessly
thrown against them the proceeding day, as he
paced to and fro, remained where he had cast
it, though it must have been displaced by the
slightest motion of either of the doors. This
was evidence that could not be disputed; and
it followed there must be some secret machinery
in the walls by which a person could enter.
He inspected them closely. They appeared
to him one solid and compact mass of iron; or
joined, if joined they were, with such nice art,
that no mark of division was perceptible. Again
and again he surveyed them—and the
floor—and the roof—and the range of visionary
windows, and he was now almost tempted
to consider them; he could discover nothing,
absolutly nothing, to relieve his doubts or satisfy
his curiosity. Sometimes he fancied that
altogether the dungeon had a more contracted
appearance—that it looked smaller; but this
he ascribed to fancy, and the impression natnrally
produced upon his mind by the undeniable
disappearance of two of the windows.
With intense anxiety, Vivenzio looked forward
to the return of night; and as it approached.
he resolved that no treacherous
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