He thrust his knife into the opening and pressed
powerfully against the wood. Suddenly his hand seemed paralyzed--on
the other side of the door he heard a light clang, and with a hollow
cry of woe, Trenck sank upon the floor. The blade of the knife was
broken and had fallen on the other side. Now he was lost! There was
no longer hope of escape! He rushed to the window; would it not be
possible to escape in that way? No, no! It was not possible to pass
through this small opening.
Trenck sank upon his knees before the window and stared into the
heavens. His pallid lips murmured low words. Were they prayers?--
were they curses?--or was it the death-rattle of dead hopes and
dying liberty? At last he rose from his knees; his face, which had
been that of a corpse, now assumed an expression of firm resolve.
Staggering and creeping along by the wall, he returned to his
prison, which he had left so short a time before full of happy
hopes. He reached his bed and laid down upon it, holding the broken
knife in his hand. Not to sleep, not to rest, but to die! He could
think of no other hope--no other way than this. "Yes, I will die!"
His life's courage, his life's energy, was exhausted.
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