come to all of us. So speak not above a whisper!"
Routine! But why in the night? And who was the woman they called the witch of witches?
"Begin!" the dull command was given.
Routine! Well, he would go through with it! "In the name of the Lord on High," he intoned in a penetrating whisper, "and in the name of His Majesty, the King of Spain and the Netherlands! There stands before us a—a"
"A maiden!" prompted the voice.
"a maiden, accused of having sold her immortal soul to the foul fiend in unholy conspiracy and of having exercised her black power in wanton sorcery and witchcraft to the detriment of man, woman and child, upon their property, their goods and possessions and upon their produce." A pause, then: "Woman, do you confess?"
Silence.
"Who witnesseth against her?" he continued.
"We all do witness against her," whispered someone in front of him.
"Aye! Aye! It is true!" whispered many voices.
"We vow she hath bewitched us or those of our families and contributed to our loss, even the death of our loved ones," said the accuser.
"Aye, she hath! We so vow it!" chorused the others.
"Doth the witch confess?" asked Mynheer the Justice.
Silence.
"Then to the rack with her—till she confesses!"
A scream of terror, quickly muffled, a sardonic cackle whose uvular tone seemed familiar, then the shuffle of many feet.
The Justice remained seated. No need for him to enter the torture chamber. Besides, he would not be able to see. In fact, he did not care to see. He had seen too many, too many! And they always confessed!
Through the open door he heard the spinning of rolls, the weak clatter of winding drums. A hush replete with indefinite sounds—they were fastening loops around the ankles and wrists of the witch. Then the squeak of turning handles, a pause, another squeak, a moan, a stifled shriek! A wait, then the plash of water! Another squeak of the drums. . .
In accustomed routine the Justice leaned to one side of the great chair. Another twist of the rack, then would come the familiar sounds, and then—confession! He listened inattentively. For there was a bigger, a personal question. What were they intending to do to him? And why this secret trial? If they would only talk in loud voices, and not in those awful whispers! It was unreal—unreal!
Again the splash of water, then another squeak, followed by faint clicks and tears, joints giving way and flesh ripping! A ghastly shriek! "God! I confess," in a pain-shocked voice. "A-a-h-h!" and silence.
Yes, that was the usual result, sometimes a little slower in coming, but not often. There! That quiet cackle! He knew it! No wonder—the skilled hands of the executioner were in charge!
The shuffle of feet once more and then a voice. "Your Worthiness, she hath confessed her guilt! Your sentence?"
Mynheer van Ragevoort roused himself. Sentence! Very well! "To be hanged by the neck until death do claim her! At once!" This would be sufficient, and few preparations necessary! A rope and
He must be short, he wanted to be away! Let them hurry and free him! For a long time he sat there and waited—waited silently, for around him all noise had ceased. There had been a little shuffling of men entering
