In this
crushed and wasted form dwelt a strong soul, a bounding heart; he
had been bound in chains thought to be indissoluble. Trenck alone
did not believe this; he trusted still in the magic power of his
will, in his good star, which had not yet been quenched in darkness.
In the wall to which the chain was fastened, his name was built, in
red tiles; a gravestone marked the spot upon which his feet moved,
upon which a death's head and the name of Trenck was engraved. Under
this stone there was a vault, and when one looked at the moist
walls, from which the water constantly trickled, and at the dark
cell, which for six months had not been cheered by one ray of light,
they might well suppose that the gravestone would soon be lifted,
and the vault opened to receive the poor prisoner, upon whose grave
no other tears would flow. These dark walls were, as it appeared,
softer and more pitiful than the hearts of men.
Trenck was not subdued; the death's head and his name upon the
gravestone did not terrify him! It was nothing more to him than a
constant reminder to collect his courage and his strength, and to
oppose to his daily menace of death a strong conviction of life and
liberty.
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