How the destructive Organ of
prince Richard promises goodly
development.
The Duke of Gloucester approached Adam as he stood
gazing on his model. “Old man,”
said the prince, touching him with the point of his
sheathed dagger, “look up and answer. What
converse hast thou held with Henry of Windsor, and
who commissioned thee to visit him in his confinement?
Speak, and the truth! for by holy Paul, I am one who
can detect a lie, and without that door stands—the
Tormentor!”
Upon a pleasing and joyous dream broke these harsh
words; for Adam then was full of the contrivance by
which to repair the defect of the engine, and with
this suggestion was blent confusedly the thought that
he was now protected by royalty, that he should have
means and leisure to accomplish his great design,
that he should have friends whose power could obtain
its adoption by the king. He raised his eyes,
and that young dark face frowned upon him,—the
child menacing the sage, brute force in a pigmy shape,
having authority of life and death over the giant
strength of genius. But these words, which recalled
Warner from his existence as philosopher, woke that
of the gentle but brave and honourable man which he
was, when reduced to earth.
“Sir,” he said gravely, “if I have
consented to hold converse with the unhappy, it was
not as the tell-tale and the spier. I had formal
warrant for my visit, and I was solicited to render
it by an early friend and comrade, who sought to be
my benefactor in aiding with gold my poor studies
for the king’s people.”
“Tut!” said Richard, impatiently, and
playing with his dagger hilt; “thy words, stealthy
and evasive, prove thy guilt! Sure am I that
this iron traitor with its intricate hollows and recesses
holds what, unless confessed, will give thee to the
hangman! Confess all, and thou art spared.”
“If,” said Adam, mildly, “your Highness—for
though I know not your quality, I opine that no one
less than royal could so menace—if your
Highness imagines that I have been intrusted by a fallen
man, wrong me not by supposing that I could fear death
more than dishonour; for certes!” continued
Adam, with innocent pedantry, “to put the case
scholastically, and in the logic familiar, doubtless,
to your Highness, either I have something to confess
or I have not; if I have—”
“Hound!” interrupted the prince, stamping
his foot, “thinkest thou to banter me,—see!”
As his foot shook the floor, the door opened, and a
man with his arms bare, covered from head to foot in
a black gown of serge, with his features concealed
by a hideous mask, stood ominously at the aperture.
The prince motioned to the torturer (or tormentor,
as he was technically styled) to approach, which he
did noiselessly, till he stood, tall, grim, and lowering,
beside Adam, like some silent and devouring monster
by its prey.
