his cries for help might be
heard. In vain; the dampness of the soil had swollen the wood, and
joined it hermetically to the wet, slimy earth.

Rodolph next tried the powers of his voice, and shouted with the fullest
expansion of his lungs, trusting that his cries for assistance might
reach the adjoining cabaret; and then, tired and exhausted, sat down to
listen. Nothing was to be heard, no sound disturbed the deep silence
which reigned, but the drop, drop, drop, the dull, trickling, monotonous
bubbling of the fast-increasing waters.

His last hope extinguished, Rodolph seated himself in gloomy despair,
and, leaning his back against the door, bewailed the perilous situation
of his faithful friend,--perhaps at that very moment struggling beneath
the assassin's knife. Bitterly did he then regret his rash and
venturesome projects, however good and generous the motives by which he
had been instigated; and severely did he reproach himself for having
taken advantage of the devotion of Murphy, who, rich, honoured, and
esteemed by all who knew him, had quitted a beloved wife and child, to
assist Rodolph in the bold undertaking he had imposed on himself.

During these sorrowful reflections, the water was still rising rapidly,
and five steps only now remained dry. Rodolph now found himself
compelled to assume a standing position, though, in so doing, his
forehead was brought in close contact with the very top of the vault. He
calculated the probable duration of his mortal agony,--of the period
which must elapse ere this slow, inch-like death would put a period to
his misery; he bethought him of the pistol he carried with him, and, at
the risk of injuring himself in the attempt, he determined to fire it
off against the door, so as to disturb some of the fastenings by the
concussion; but here, again, a disappointment awaited him,--the pistol
was nowhere to be found, and he could but conclude it had fallen from
his pocket during his struggle with the Schoolmaster. But for his deep
concern on Murphy's account, Rodolph would have met his death
unmoved,--his conscience acquitted him of all intentional offence; nay,
it solaced him with the recollection of good actually performed, and
much more meditated. To the decrees of an all-wise and inscrutable
Providence he resigned himself, and humbly accepted his present
punishment as the just reward for a criminal action as yet unexpiated.

A fresh trial of his fortitude awaited him. The ra