We shall meet again all we are doing and have done. The graves shall give up their dead, and from the tombs of oblivion the past shall give up all that it holds in keeping, to be witness for or witness against us. Oh, think of that, and in yonder hall of the inquisition see what its effect should be. Within those blood-stained walls, for whose atrocious cruelties Rome has yet to answer, one is under examination.
He has been assured that nothing he reveals shall be written for the purpose of being used against him. While making frank and ingenious confession he suddenly stops. He is dumb—a mute. They ply him with questions, flatter him, threaten him; he answers not a word. Danger makes the senses quick. His ear has caught a sound; he listens; it ties his tongue. An arras hangs beside him, and behind it he hears a pen running along the pages.
The truth flashes on him. Behind that screen a scribe sits committing to the fatal page every word he says, and he shall meet it again on the day of trial. Ah! how solemn to think that there is such a pen going in heaven, and entering on the books of judgment all we say, or wish, all we think or do.—GUTHRIE.
