Classic Poem

So wildly beat his heart and throbbed his veins,
As morn's first struggling gleam.
His rift net caught,
He e'en must follow its meandering beam,
Till something on the walls his footsteps brought
To rest. He shuddered as he saw the death-throe stains

Of some whose hands and ankles, staple-bound,
Had graved thereon the sign
Of crucified.
"My God!" he cried, "such fate may yet be mine!"
He turned and lo! close at his feet he spied
A note. A piercing wail then woke the echoes round.

"To-morrow, Eric, will decide your fate.
Confess and you are free;
Else will you die
A death of torture, marks of which you'll see
Upon the walls around. Fly, Eric, fly,
This night, this very night, or it will be too late!"