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Itwashopethatpromptedthenervetoquiver—theframetoshrink. Itwashope—thehopethattriumphsontherack—thatwhisperstothedeath-condemnedeveninthedungeonsoftheInquisition.
Isawthatsometenortwelvevibrationswouldbringthesteelinactualcontactwithmyrobe,andwiththisobservationtheresuddenlycameovermyspiritallthekeen,collectedcalmnessofdespair. Forthefirsttimeduringmanyhours—orperhapsdays—Ithought. Itnowoccurredtomethatthebandage,orsurcingle,whichenvelopedme,wasunique. Iwastiedbynoseparatecord. Thefirststrokeoftherazorlikecrescentathwartanyportionoftheband,wouldsodetachitthatitmightbeunwoundfrommypersonbymeansofmylefthand. Buthowfearful,inthatcase,theproximityofthesteel! Theresultoftheslighteststrugglehowdeadly! Wasitlikely,moreover,thattheminionsofthetorturerhadnotforeseenandprovidedforthispossibility! Wasitprobablethatthebandagecrossedmybosominthetrackofthependulum? Dreadingtofindmyfaint,and,asitseemed,inlasthopefrustrated,Isofarelevatedmyheadastoobtainadistinctviewofmybreast. Thesurcingleenvelopedmylimbsandbodycloseinalldirections—saveinthepathofthedestroyingcrescent.
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