WITHIN AN INCH OF ETERNITY.

The windows of the restaurant were open, and the cool, fragrant air of the spring night was struggling with the smoke-laden atmosphere of the room. A glance out of doors showed the azure sky and the brilliant full moon, whose glimmering bluish rays shone through the young leafage of the blossoming trees, which swayed gently to and fro before the windows in the light breeze. But nothing was more remote from the minds of our circle, which met every evening at a certain table for social intercourse, than poetical ideas. The club, of which I was one, consisted principally of worthy citizens, who had a far greater liking for bright gaslight than for dim moonlight, and who appreciated the charms of a good supper much more than the spell of the loveliest spring night. The topic of our conversation was prosaic town gossip, which, as usual, gradually merged into foolish talk about politics or discussions concerning the Government, the theater, high taxes, and similar subjects. By a connection of ideas which I do not now recall, the question had arisen whether it was credible that a person’s hair could suddenly turn gray from violent mental excitement. Part of the company received the anecdotes current about such cases with slight doubts, while others most pitilessly derided persons who were simple enough to believe such nursery tales.

Just as the conversation became most animated, a man of unusual height and herculean frame, whom he had not previously noticed, rose from a side table and approached us. His intelligent features, which bore the stamp of resolution, seemed spiritualized by the large, kindly blue eyes. But the most striking peculiarity in his appearance was the snow white hair and the gray beard framing his face, which, at the utmost, indicated an age of only thirty-five years.

“Pardon me if I enter into your conversation,” he said, bowing courteously. “You are speaking of a subject which greatly interests me. I myself am a living proof that terrible mental agitation really does exert the physical influence which you all doubt.”

His words awakened the utmost interest. We made room for him at our table, and, after he had taken his seat, unanimously urged him to tell us what had caused the whiteness of his hair.

The stranger feigned no undue modesty, but yielded to our entreaties and related the following story:

“If you have ever paid any attention to American affairs, the name of Auburn cannot be unfamiliar; it has about the same significance in the United States as Spielberg has in Austria. You must not imagine Auburn as an immense gloomy prison, a single large building, but rather a whole colony of criminals, a metropolis of the miserable outcasts of society. Inclosed by enormous walls, which rise menacingly to a considerable height above the plain, are a great number of single structures, houses which contain the cells of the prisoners, the residences of the wardens, barracks, hospitals, and workshops, all desolate and dreary, with here and there a bit of turf, a row of trees, a bed of flowers, like an innocent memory of childhood among the evil thoughts of a criminal.

“Circumstances which I will not weary you by recounting had led me, after completing my education in my native city, Hamburg, to America, and after a brief time in New York I found myself prison surgeon in Auburn, which, as perhaps you know, is in the State of New York.

“I had charge of a part of the prison which contained the worst criminals, men, or, rather, human hyenas, to whom blood had ceased to be a very special liquid, as Mephistopheles terms it. Two, who were condemned to lifelong imprisonment in the institution, and were distinguished among the others by great bodily strength, craftiness, and intelligence, had, in consequence of repeated bold and cunning attempts to escape, been placed under more rigid oversight than the rest. I had incurred their special hate because I had once caused the discovery of several iron tools, which—heaven knows how obtained—they had concealed under their clothing, and on another occasion discovered that they were shamming when, on the plea of illness, they desired to be placed in the hospital, probably because they hoped to find the conditions there more favorable for their plans of escape. The scoundrels were separated and heavily chained, but nevertheless one morning one and, a few days later, the other vanished, chains and all, without leaving a trace. About a fortnight afterward I went to Cayuga Bridge on some private business.

“It was noon when I reached the end of my ride, and I gazed with delight at the sunlit landscape before my eyes. Cayuga Lake, one of those which, with Lake Erie, form the network of inland lakes, lay before me in its peculiar loveliness. Between rugged, rocky shores, confronting each other like sullen foes, the long, narrow sheet of silver extended its clear surface as if striving to reconcile the two enemies who had stared defiantly at each other for centuries. Across the lake, which is about forty miles long, and, at this point, a mile wide, the railway trains run on an immense wooden bridge, a marvel of American enterprise, which has a station at Cayuga Bridge, an insignificant village.

“My business was soon completed, and toward evening I set out on my way home. Are you familiar with the pleasure of a ride on a summer evening? Cayuga Bridge is surrounded by extensive oak forests, through which I had to ride a considerable distance. The huge, lofty trunks cast long shadows and the tops rustled so softly that one rather felt than heard them. As I passed beneath these woodland giants, sweet memories of my far-off home stole into my heart. Absorbed in thought, I loosened the bridle of my horse, which trotted slowly forward. I admired the bewitching blending of colors produced by the rays of the setting sun, as they shone through the dense, dark green foliage and seemed to kindle the edges of the leaves. Suddenly I was roused from my dreams by a rustling in the underbrush on both sides of the road. I seized my pistol and turned quickly, but at the same moment received a terrible blow, which deprived me of my senses. True, I opened my eyes once more and fancied I saw indistinctly, as if in a dream, one of the escaped criminals bending over me, then darkness shrouded my mind.

“It must have been late at night when consciousness returned. I opened my eyes and saw above me in the deep blue sky a radiant full moon. A dull, heavy sensation in the back of my head made me try to put my hand on the aching spot, but I discovered that I was bound hand and foot. Gradually I collected my thoughts, remembered the attack by highwaymen, and a terrible foreboding, which made my heart stop beating, darted through my brain. I felt that I was laid across two sharp parallel projections, which pressed against me most painfully and, listening intently, I heard, far below me, a faint splashing noise. There was no doubt—I was lying across the rails of the Cayuga Bridge, bound, unable to move, with the terribly certain prospect of being cut into three pieces by the next train.

“I almost lost consciousness again. But I soon recovered my composure. Then I tugged desperately at my bonds till they almost cut my muscles, shrieked, and at last wept like a child. I tried to roll myself into a different position, and remembered that an incautious movement would hurl me into the silent waves of the Cayuga—bound hand and foot, motionless as a stone.

“I shuddered and lay still. But not long. The light of the large, to me, fearfully brilliant moon, the plashing of the water below, the wind blowing softly, then the deathlike silence again, rarely interrupted even by the distant note of a bird—all became unendurable and inspired me with unspeakable terror. And the rails! The rails! My senses tortured me. I could not escape them. The wooden beams of the bridge trembled almost imperceptibly from the washing of the water. I imagined I felt the approach of the train and my hair bristled; the wind sighed a little louder, I fancied I heard the dull panting of the engine and my heart stood still, only to throb the next instant with such dreadful speed that the pulsations were almost audible.

“There are some things, gentlemen, which are totally incomprehensible to me; one of them is how I survived that night. One thought stood distinctly before my mind. I must endeavor to work myself into another position—if possible, get into the space between the rails—if I was not, perhaps the next moment, to become the victim of the most agonizing death.

“And I succeeded! I strained every muscle, every sinew to the point of breaking. I writhed, I twisted, I panted, my head seemed bursting, and, after tremendous exertion, which appeared to me to last an eternity, though perhaps it was only moments, I found myself in the hollow between the rails.

“Was I safe? I had not time to consider or rejoice in my new hope, for all my vital powers were concentrated in the single sense of hearing. In the far distance I distinguished, at first vaguely, then more and more distinctly, the regular, monotonous, dull noise which is produced by the engine of a moving locomotive. The awful silence of the night merged minute by minute into the still more awful, confused jarring sounds, the rattling and groaning, rumbling and panting of a locomotive, which was rushing forward at the mad speed of American trains. A thousand feet more, five hundred—all the terrors of the infernal regions assailed me, but not a muscle moved; I lay as if turned to stone. I tried to shriek, but did not even hear my own voice; how should it reach those on the train?

“Now, for an infinitely brief space of time, I fancied that I saw a bright light, a blast of hot air fanned me, then suddenly darkness shrouded me, I heard a thundering roar as though the very heavens were falling.

“Close, very close, barely an inch above, the monster dashed over me—I was safe. Still half unconscious, I heard a deafening rumbling and clattering, and saw shadowy masses flit by; there was another moment of mortal dread—the hook of a chain which hung lower than the rest caught me, dragged me along a few feet and finally tore a large piece from the breast of my coat, releasing me—then every object danced around me, the moon, the bridge, and the high bank whirled in a giddy maze above and below me, and my senses failed.

“When I regained my consciousness I found myself in my bed, with familiar faces around me. To make the story short, I had been picked up the morning after that terrible night by a signal man, recognized, and taken to Auburn. A violent fever kept me for a fortnight within the shadow of death, but my strong constitution conquered. When, after my recovery, I looked in the glass for the first time, I saw what traces those moments had left upon me.”

The physician paused. His pallid face, the expression of horror in his eyes, the perspiration which stood in large drops upon his brow, showed how vivid must be his remembrances of the scene, and how greatly the narration had exhausted him.

Gradually the breathless anxiety with which we had listened to the story related with such graphic power passed away, and cheerfulness returned.

Then we paced to and fro for a long time in the moonlight, in the garden behind the tavern, listening to the doctor’s tales of less harrowing experiences in the young land of liberty, wonders, and adventure.