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For several hours, Anthony had been ensnared in a deep, drug-induced sleep. When he finally awoke, he found himself in a cell with walls, floor, and ceiling made of solid stone. In the center of the room stood a massive granite pillar, its capital adorned with grotesque carvings of skulls and crossbones. Anthony’s left arm was chained to this pillar with heavy iron links, securing him to a ring embedded in the adjacent wall. Beside him, a pitcher of water stood untouched, and an ancient-looking book bound in black vellum lay nearby.
The dungeon was circular, with a coved roof supported by the pillar. A steep flight of steps rose from a doorway set six feet below the level of the chamber, framed by a pointed arch. A thin stream of light filtered through a narrow aperture in the roof, casting an eerie glow on Anthony’s gaunt features. His dark-brown hair hung in wild tangles, and his beard was untrimmed. His eyes, wide and haunted, stared vacantly, as if fixed on some horrific vision only he could see. He sat on the cold stone floor, his hand supporting his chin, lost in a reverie filled with vivid, tormenting images. His clothing was not of modern times but a doublet and hose of rich material, styled after the fashion of Elizabethan England.
After some time, Anthony reached for the ancient tome and began to turn its pages. The book was filled with arcane symbols and magical discourses. On one of the early pages, he found a name that immediately riveted his attention. He searched in vain for an explanation within the rest of the text, then set the book aside and sank into deep thought. He sighed heavily and turned back to the book, his gaze finally falling on his attire. Startled, he examined his sleeve closely, then rose to inspect himself from head to foot. He was indeed dressed in the garb of a gentleman from Elizabethan times.
“What can this mean?” he cried out. “Have I endured a long and troubled dream, in which I imagined living for more than two centuries? O Heaven, let it be so! Let the horrific crimes I think I have committed be mere figments of a nightmare! Let my victims be imaginary! Let Evaline be only a beautiful phantom of the night! And yet, I almost wish the rest were real, so that she might exist. I cannot bear the thought that she is nothing more than a vision. But it must be so—I have been dreaming. What a dream it has been, what strange glimpses of the future it has afforded me! I seemed to live through the reigns of many sovereigns, witnessed one being led to the block, saw revolutions shake the kingdom, old dynasties fall, and new ones rise. Fashions changed so drastically that I had forgotten the old ways, and my fellow men seemed entirely different. Can I be the same? Is this the dress I once wore? Let me find proof.”
He thrust his hand into his doublet and drew out some tablets. As he examined them, he saw they bore his name and some writing. With a cry of joy, he exclaimed, “This is proof enough—I have been dreaming all this while.”
“The scheme works like a charm,” muttered a shadowy figure lurking at the base of the steps leading up from the doorway. Concealed from view, he watched the prisoner with a malignant, exultant gaze.
“And yet, why am I here?” Anthony murmured, looking around the cell. “Ah, I see,” he added with a shudder. “I must have been mad—perhaps I still am. That explains the strange delusions that have tormented me.”
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“I’ll act on that,” muttered the listener, a sinister smile curling his lips.
“What use is memory,” Anthony continued, “if things that never were seem real? If joys and sorrows we never experienced are stamped upon our minds—if visions of places, faces, and events we’ve never known haunt us as if they were once familiar? But I am mad—mad!”
The listener suppressed a laugh, a gleam of sadistic pleasure in his eyes.
“How else, if I were not mad, could I have believed I swallowed the fabled elixir vitae? And yet, is it truly a fable? I feel old—old—though I look and feel young. Madness, all of it. Yet how vivid and distinct it seems! I remember events from Charles II’s time. Ha!—who told me of Charles II? How do I know he existed? The reigning sovereign should be James, yet I fancy it is George IV. Oh! I am mad—utterly mad!”
A pause followed, during which the listener indulged in another fit of suppressed laughter.
“Would that I could look out from this dungeon,” Anthony resumed, “and discern truth from falsehood by gazing upon the external world. I am so perplexed that if I weren’t already insane, these thoughts would surely drive me there. Such dismal, terrible fancies weigh upon me still—the pact with Rougemont—ha!”
“Now it comes,” muttered the listener eagerly.
“Oh, if only I could shake off this conviction—that my soul, though heavily burdened, might still be saved! If only I dared to hope!”
“I must interrupt him if he continues in this vein,” said the listener, a note of urgency in his voice.
“Whether my crimes are real or imaginary—whether I stole the cup of immortality from my dying grandfather—whether I signed a pact with the Fiend and delivered a victim every tenth year—I cannot know now. But if it is true, I deeply, bitterly regret my actions and would atone with a life of penance.”
At that moment, Rougemont, dressed similarly to the prisoner, ascended the steps and called out, “What ho, Anthony! Anthony Darcy!”
“Who speaks?” demanded Anthony, his eyes wild with fear. “Ah! Is it you, Fiend?”
“You’re still clinging to your old delusions,” Rougemont replied. “I thought the draught I gave you last night would have cured you.”
“Tell me who and what I am,” Anthony cried, stupefied. “What age am I living in? Am I in my right mind or not?”
“For the first, you are Anthony Darcy,” Rougemont replied. “For the second, you live in the reign of his most Catholic Majesty James I of England, and sixth of Scotland. And for the third, I trust you will soon recover your reason.”
“Amazement!” Anthony exclaimed, striking his brow with a clenched hand. “Then I am mad.”
“It’s plain your reason is returning since you are conscious of your condition,” Rougemont observed. “But calm yourself, you have been subject to violent frenzies.”
“And I have been confined here for safety?” Anthony asked.
“Precisely,” Rougemont confirmed.
“And you are—?”
“Your keeper,” Rougemont replied.
“My God! What a wretched mind I must have!” Anthony groaned. “Answer me one question—Is there such a person as Evaline Thorneycroft?”
“You have often raved about her,” Rougemont said dismissively. “But she is merely a figment of your imagination.”
Anthony groaned again and sank against the wall.
“Since you have become so reasonable, you shall go forth into the world again,” Rougemont said. “But the first outing must be at night, to avoid attracting attention. I will return in a few hours. Farewell for now.”
Casting a sinister glance at his captive, Rougemont turned on his heel, descended the steps, and left the cell, his laughter echoing faintly in the damp, cold air.