and under the torture she had admitted it. So he was forced to sentence her—to burning at the stake! How she had pleaded for life! How she had shrieked when the flames enveloped her! And then that appalling stillness, broken only by the crackling of fagots and the rush of the flames!
And there was the sweet, innocent face of Gertrudis Bourdelaide. No, he doubted her accusers. He had known the girl since her birth, in fact, he had lifted the child over the baptismal font as her godfather! Terribly she had been accused—and had confessed! They had to carry her away from the torture. He remembered how her crushed legs had quivered in agony, the white, bloodless features, the maimed hands. She had endured much, but she had confessed! The rope and quartering! But those moans, long-drawn, haunting, unending! Never a shriek, never a cry, only moans! Would he ever forget?
The Justice shook himself. He flung his cloak around his head and moved down the road, carrying in his hand a small lantern, from which a candle shone weakly. "Not much good in this thick gloom," he muttered. There was a fog in the air, which scarcely stirred with his movements. Yet the stillness, the lack of motion made him feel unsafe, restless. What was behind the gloom?
Hurriedly he trod the road toward his castle, his home. This stood somewhat apart from the city, as became the overlord and Justice. Not for him to live among gossips and small tradesmen! Besides, it was the home of his fathers.
A faint rustling sound made him pause. He peered around intently, but perceived nothing. Even his caudle seemed unable to pierce the fog beyond his arm's reach. Silence around him! Well, he must move on, toward home, toward rest—perhaps. At least he would see his daughter. . .
Something huge and light fluttered from the fog and fell over his head, covering him with soft folds. In fright he dropped his lantern and gurgled a shriek. He fought back the folds, but they enveloped him tighter and tighter, drawing around him till his arms were helpless.
And then hands seized him, on the right and the left, and a voice whispered: "Come! But say naught!"
"What—what" he began. But an insistent prod of some pointed weapon made him move forward.
Forward! But where? Where were they taking him? And for what purpose? The cloth covering his eyes made little difference; he had been unable to see anything without it. They left the road, moved across ditches, over the veldt. Stops when he was lifted over some obstacle—a hedge or boundary mark, he thought. More veldt! And around him the faint thuds of numerous feet, slithering noises of mantles brushing against each other, muffled clinks of metal. God! what was in store for him?
The Justice stumbled through a ditch. Then hard and rounded bumps under his feet—ah, he was back in Hegemonde, in the city—among people! If he called!
A sharp point pressed his side and a warning hiss apprized him of what would happen. So he was silent.
Some steps up which he stumbled, then a chamber. He felt himself led to a seat. How familiar that seat felt! With his feet he cautiously felt about himself. Yes, there were the legs of the table, and there his own footstool. It was his own: he was in the Court of Justice, his own court!
"Your own court! Your own dais!" came in deadened tones beside him. "We are here to try the witch of witches, to try her under the Law! But she must not know us lest sorrow
