But
now, among these pale-eyed and ferocious zealots, whose hardened brows
were soon to be bent, not merely with indifference, but with triumph,
upon his execution,--without a friend to speak a kindly word, or give a
look either of sympathy or encouragement,--awaiting till the sword
destined to slay him crept out of the scabbard gradually, and as it were
by strawbreadths, and condemned to drink the bitterness of death drop by
drop,--it is no wonder that his feelings were less composed than they had
been on any former occasion of danger. His destined executioners, as he
gazed around them, seemed to alter their forms and features, like
spectres in a feverish dream; their figures became larger, and their
faces more disturbed; and, as an excited imagination predominated over
the realities which his eyes received, he could have thought himself
surrounded rather by a band of demons than of human beings; the walls
seemed to drop with blood, and the light tick of the clock thrilled on
his ear with such loud, painful distinctness, as if each sound were the
prick of a bodkin inflicted on the naked nerve of the organ.
[Illustration: Morton Awaiting Death--frontispiece2]
It was with pain that he felt his mind wavering, while on the brink
between this and the future world.
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