 This is your narrator, the man in black. Again about to introduce tonight's Columbia program, Suspense. The story is The Pit in the Pendulum by Edgar Allan Poe. The adaptation by John Dixon Carr. Our guest is the distinguished American actor, Mr. Henry Hull, who plays the part of a prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition. If you've been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that suspense is compounded of mystery, suspicion, and dangerous adventure, to hold you in a precarious situation and withhold the solution until the last possible moment. And so it is with The Pit in the Pendulum and Mr. Hull's performance, we again hope to keep you in suspense. And now, The Pit in the Pendulum. Sick. Sick on her death with that long agony. And when at length they unbound me and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy, indeterminate hum. Yet for a while I saw, but without terrible exaggeration, I saw the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies on the walls of the room. I saw the flames of the seven tall candles which burned on the table. I saw the lips of the black hooded judges, and these lips appeared to me, white, white as paper, white as horror. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name. John Delbray, Captain John Delbray. Good father, gentlemen. We hear you, my son. I am very weak and infirm. I've been confined for many months in a dungeon. I've been tormented by nightmares. Conscience one trusts. Pre-silence, sir Antonio. Even now, I have no knowledge of where I am, or to whom I may be speaking. You are speaking to me, my son. Prior of the Dominicans of Segovia, and Grand Inquisitor of all Spain. Is this the court of the Inquisition? It is. Oh, then God help me. He will help you, my son, if you trust him. I am a French officer. That is true. A soldier and creature of the art being Napoleon Bonaparte. But a French officer nonetheless. A prisoner of war. That what might you try me in this court? Let the clerk read the charges against this prisoner. Pre-silence, while the clerk reads the charges. The charges against the prisoner are as follows. Imprimus, that he has worn Jean d'Albray, a captain of artillery in the army of Bonaparte, so-called Emperor of the French. This means nothing, as the prisoner says. It is no crime. Proceed. Items that on the fourth day of September in the year of our Lord, 1888, that St. Jean d'Albray did wear to Spouse and marry the most noble lady, the Dona Beatrice Valdez, one moment. Your Excellency, folks. Antonio, was any cheat employed to trap this girl and to marriage against her will? No, we have no actual evidence of a cheat. Was the girl of age? I believe so. And wherefore is the prisoner here? This marriage was a deplorable thing, if you like. Bonaparte himself is almost at the gates of my grave. He's general. Menace is our city of Toledo itself. But lawful marriage, however regrettable, isn't of sin or crime. There are other matters in the indictment, I think. Then continue. But give us nothing, this is not material. Item that on the 12th of October, 1888, that St. Jean d'Albray, being in command of a five-gun battery of light artillery, did direct the fire of his guns against the holy church of St. Martha the Innocent. What? And thereby of his wicked malice destroyed that church utterly. Captain d'Albray, is this charge true? It is, yes. You admit it? Good Father, hear what I have to say. The church blew up, I think. Were you boast of your opinion, man? It blew up because it was stored with kegs of gunpowder for your army. I had every right to file on it. And that is all the defense you have to make? I tell you, I had every right to file on it by military law. There was military law above God's law. I... I don't know. I did my duty, that's all. Long live the emperor! Captain d'Albray, mark what I say. No man, however great his heresy, is ever condemned to be burnt in the fire. The fire? If the fire. If he first recant and acknowledge the error of his ways. But for you, Jean d'Albray, there can be no mercy, no pity, no atonement. The only sentence of this court can be death. Death. The secular, a government arm to which we must release you, has devised two ways of punishment in cases such as yours. You hear the tolling of the bell? I hear them. It is the procession of the contempt. Going to the autotaphase. Soon the yellow light of the flames will stream through the windows and flicker on floor and ceiling. Nunch et inora mortis intuis mando persomene. Most of those condemned out of mercy will be strangled before they are burned. It cannot be so with you, Jean d'Albray. You must die in one of two ways, either with the diarist of physical agony. A slow fire of green wood, iced bandages about the head and the heart so that the fire does not approach too quickly. Or else, Jean d'Albray, you must die in a certain other way. I've done with this past your sentence and let me go. The Lord does not permit me to tell you now what this other way is. The sentence of this court, therefore. I have swooned. Yet still I would not say that all of consciousness was lost. In the deepest slumber, no. In delirium, no. In a swoon, no. In death, no. Even in the grave, all is not lost. There are shadows of memory which tell us indistinctly of tall figures that lifted me and bore me in silence down, down, still down. Until their hideous dizziness oppressed me at the descent into the earth. Then, as consciousness swam back to my wet stone floor and darkness. Oh, Beatrice. Beatrice, my wife, Beatrice. Was that you who spoke? Yes, Jean. You were here in the dungeon of the Inquisition. I am not really speaking for you, my poor Jean. I am only in your imagination. No. But your brain is feverish. You only think you hear. No, no, no. I do. I do. I hear you clearly. As clearly as I once heard you. In the little church near the Abrah where we were married. Yes, yes, yes. I destroyed that church, Beatrice. I had to. It was my commanding officer's order. I know, Jean. Be comforted. There are those who care. You won't leave me. As long as I am in your heart, I shall be here. I was strong once. Now. And I am weak. Once I was reckless. Now I am afraid. What am I, Beatrice? What are they going to do to me? I cannot tell. Remember, my voice comes only from your own brain. Are you fettered? Fettered? No. They've not chained you to the wall. No, no. They've taken away my uniform. They've given me sandals and a robe of what feels like coarse surge. But I'm still free. Free. Take courage, Jean. Free. And in the grasp of the inquisition, Beatrice. Yes, Jean. It's completely dark. There's hardly any air. I'd better get up. I'd better just stretch out my hand. Suppose... Suppose it buried me alive. Courage. Can you stand up? Yes. Then walk. Walk as far as you can. Measure the limit of the stealth. If this is not a tomb... You are right, Beatrice. That always I'll find. Are you on your feet? Yes. Now pray. Pray for a poor devil who always meant well. One pace. Free. Four. You are very weak, Jean. Rest a moment. Where are you now, Beatrice? In the flesh, I mean. You know that, Jean. In the old house by the olive grove, scorned of my peat. Yes, I know it. Each morning I climb to the hilltop and watch. Go on, go on. Sometimes I think I hear gunweeds rumble in the hills. Yes. And long-moving columns with the red dust rising above them. Go on, go on. First come the heavy cavalry in plume-crested helmets. Yes. On their flanks, wheeling like hawks, light hussars in blue and scarlet. And behind them, in a glitter of bayonets as vast as light points on the seas, rank upon ranks. Yes. The long gray coats and the tall, bare-skinned hats of the old God and the Grand Army. It is only a vision, my dear one. They do not come. Ah, will they? Will they ever come, Beatrice? I cannot tell. Then I must face what has been prepared for me. Walk again, Jean. Try. Keep your hand in front of you. This robe, this robe, it impedes me. And the floor is treacherous and slimy. But I'll try. Four places. Five, six, seven. It can't be a tomb. Eight, nine. Look out! The robe, the robe tripped me. My, my hand is in front of me. It's lower than my face, I feel, I feel nothing. Nothing, Jean. It's a pit. A circular pit. And I fell on the very edge of it. Oh, they would have made you walk into it. Yes. Oh, there's a loose fragment of rock just inside the edge of it. If I can dislodge it. Listen. Water. There's something down there. Rats, it may be. Rats, yes. But something else, I heard it move. Who did I? What is in the pit, Jean? I don't know. But you're saved. Saved, Beatrice. Saved. From the Inquisition. My, my torture has been merely postponed. A deep sleep fell upon me. Sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, I, I know not. But when I opened my eyes once again, I could see. Yes, see. My prison was large and lofty. Its walls formed a massive iron place, bolted and joined together. A wild, sulfurous luster. I could not trace its origin, lit up the dungeon, and the circular pit, and the crudely-dobbed skeleton figures painted in evil colors on the iron walls. Skeleton figures, demon figures, gargoyle figures. Their colors a little blurred as from the effects of the damp. It must approach you slowly and force itself into your mind. It must stalk you like a tiger. It must bring you face to face at last with the king of terrors. When I, when I regained consciousness, I lay on my back in a full length on a low framework of wood. To this framework, I was securely bound by a long, fastening, resembling a surgical bandage. Bound. But why? Why? The bandage passed round and round my body, leaving at liberty only my head and my left arm. With much exertion, I could supply myself with food from an earthen dish on the floor beside me. There was meat, highly seasoned, but there was no water. Beers, where are you? Here, John. As always. Your voice sounds stronger. Does it, John? And I, I can see you now. I can see you as clearly as I saw you months ago. Oh, I wish it were true. Your bonnet in the parasol you carried in summer and the high-waisted blue dress. You are weaker, my dear, and more feverish. Have I, have I been asleep? Yes, John. They must have been here while I slept. They bound me. Why? Why? Why? Why? Stop those voices! Stop them! Mine, too, John. I am not here eagerly anymore. Don't drive me away. Be careful, be careful. Look, look, look. I'd see them in this room 30, 40 feet up what you see. I see painted on the ceiling. Figure of Father Tyne. Anything else? But Father Tyne carries no sign. No. He carries instead what looks like a gigantic pendulum from an ancient clock. About one thing I swear I'm in my right senses. I saw that pendulum move. A painting cannot move. Yet I swear the pendulum did move. It swung a little back and forth just like a real pendulum. Try not to trouble your brain. That pendulum is real. Be at risk. Be at risk. Take care. Take care of what? You're not looking at the pendulum now. Take care of the rats, the rats and the pit. I see them. They're thawing out in dozens. You can see their eyes glitter. They've crossed the hem of your crest. Did it, John? What do they want? They've caught the scent of the meat in the dish beside it. But they'll not get it. Go away, you vermin. Move your hand above the plate, John. Move. Be at risk. Be at risk. Where are you going? I could hardly hear you. You are sending me away, John. I am sending you away. Oh, my poor loved one. You can't bear to see the rats running about. Be at risk. My new vermin. There are others I'd rather see here. I'd rather see here. You call me Captain Dalbury. Then, in spirit, I am here. Who are you? You want to recognize me? No, I do not. I am that second inquisitor, Cra Antonio, whom you thought unfair as your trial. But we were not unfair. We administer the law. That is all. I command you, go. Not until I have first told you what you already get. Which is? There are two forms of death for such as you. One, death with its direst physical torture. The other, death with its direst mental torture. And I? I have been condemned to the second. Your guess is good. Listen. Do you hear anything? Yes, yes, I do. I hear something. Turn your eyes upwards. Look at the ceiling. The pendulum. Aye, the pendulum. It's descended. Only a foot or so as yet. As you notice, it is not really a pendulum. It's underside is a crescent. Formed of sharp, razor sharp steel. You mean? The ponderous weight, Captain Delbray. His movement is slow now. But soon it will take on momentum. It will swing wider and wider. 30 feet perhaps. Presently, as it swings, you will hear it hiss. And with each broad movement, it will creep a trifle to lower. Steel is directly above me. Yes. But the region of your heart lies still and looks up at it. How? How long before? And we'd have no immediate fear. It will not be too soon. But how soon? Who can tell? In the name of pity, if there's some answer. As perhaps days is beginning to swing wider, I can't take my eyes from it. It fascinates you. See how it shines in that wild light. And this is your utmost profiling and cruelty. The law, Captain Delbray, is never cruel. And now, still in spirit, I leave you to your meditations. It will not be too soon. Minutes. Hours. Days. Steadily down it crept. Days past. It might have been many days before it swept so closely. Just a fan made of this morbid breath. Minutes. Days. The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into the minuscule, the right and wide. The shriek of a damned spirit. The stealthy pace of Tiger, certainly relentlessly down. I prayed. I wailed in heaven with my prayer of its more speedy descent. I grew friendlier mad and struggled to force myself up against that swinging, glittering death. I'm no real. Still unceasingly. Still inevitable. Down the sharp steel pressed past within three inches. Just... Minutes. I am here. It is a strange thing, business. I'm quite calm. We are resigned then. No. That is the strange thing. Even now, I am not resigned. Is there a way out? How can there be? Ten, twelve more vibrations and will fray the surge of my womb only lightly as a loser in a delicate hand. There will be many sweeps before it bites deep. No, I can't escape it. You kept me away from you, John. You locked me out of your thoughts. If I am here only in your thoughts, why should I fear the rats? The rats! You opened your eyes in your eyes' blaze. What is it? The rats! Do they still swarm here? Across the floor and over the meat platter. They have taken nearly all your food. Yes, yes, yes. Of course they are ravenous. And they have sharp teeth. Well... The meat is oily and spiced. If I take what remains of it... Scatter, you vermin! And rub that meat on the banter just as it holds me here. Try it, John. Try it. It may be too late because I need my body a fraction of an inch up. Try it. I tell you, try it. Ah, but look this. Scatter as soon as I do try it. But they are watching you. I can see their eyes. Look at them. They are creeping back. Can I stand with rats crawling across me? Can the flesh... One of them has leaped on the wooden floor. Another follows. They are gnawing at the bandage. Seven, eight more sleeps of the pendulum. The bandage, give way. A little rest. Light still, shine light still. Ten, twelve, a dozen rats now. Is death, I wonder, worse than this disgust? A dozen sharp knives could do no better. The bandage is loosened to ribbon. Now if you move sideways. Careful. And drop to the floor. There are betters I can't move. My arms, my legs are numb. There is no power to... The steel has braided your role. The minute more will be too late. Try. Then with all the punctures in me and all the hate that I bear, my enemies... Freeze! A second. They are drawing it back up through the roof. Hedge move. They watched. You never doubt it. Yet with all they could do to you, they have failed twice. They will not fail. No more dallying with a king of terrors. What else can they do? I can't say. See, see how the rats know in silence of that bandage. To what food, I wonder? But you escaped the pit. I escaped it once. What do you hear? A groaning. Here it's grinding as a metal. It was only the cogwheels of the pendulum. I think not, Beatrice. Why not? It seemed to come from behind those iron-plated walls. It seems to shake the dungeon as a millwheel might shake it. Stand up, my poor Jean. Get up off your knees. I can't, Beatrice. I can't endure anymore. The paintings on the walls of this dungeon, the skeletons and imps and devils, they seem different. They are different. The colors sharpener grow bright. The demons' eyes glare. The skeleton hands are stretched. Don't you catch even yet the odor of heated iron? Beatrice, my darling, I... I have been much humbled. But I won't. I won't have you see me in tears. I'll order you to call... Jean, in the name of heaven... Beatrice! ...you're sending me away. For caving heat pervaded the prison, a deeper glow settled in the painted eyes that glared at me. I could draw no breath of air into my lungs. Against the loom of that fiery destruction, the thought of the pit and its coolness come like a soothing bomb. I staggered to the edge of the pit, I looked into it, in kindred walls and a roof I lighted it through its depths. Yet for one wild moment, even then, I refused to believe the horror of what I saw beneath me. Does the pit please you, Captain Delbray? Not the pit! Merciful God, do anything but that! And how shall you avoid it? Look has changed its shape. That is true. All's are closing in. It was formerly a square, and now it is flattening slowly toward the center to force me into the pit. Of course. Ah, well, you'll force you along with me. Again, apparently, you must be told, Captain Delbray, that you are speaking only to your own sick fancy. I am not here at all. Farewell. Now, now, close her, and close her through the red-burning walls, forcing me into the pit with a swiftness that left me no time for thought. I shrank back with the closing walls, past me relentlessly onward, at length for my steered and writhing body that was no longer an inch of foothold. Ah, ah, I've seen one! I've started on the edge of the pit! My arm caught my own, but I was about to fall, freeing into the abyss. It was that of General LaSalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The inquisition was in the hands of its enemies. So close is Poe's celebrated story, the pit in the pendulum, starring Henry Hull. We invite you to another adventure of suspense next Tuesday at the same hour. Until then, this is The Man in Black, saying goodnight. William Spear, the producer. John Deets, the director. Bernard Herrmann, the composer-conductor. And John Dixon Carr, the author. Our collaborators on... The Spence. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.