justice. When the Law is in unjust hands, man may—and must—take the Law from those hands and punish them! That is what the Vehmgericht has decided. Sir Justice, stand and hear your sentence!"
Mynheer van Ragevoort arose stiffly. It was all like a dream and still terribly real. For some reason he could not muster his thoughts to utter a protest. Pictures of trials, of tortured women, of executions, raced through his mind. It was true, terribly true, what the leader had said. But he had not meant to be unjust. He, too, had suffered, because of his duty. He had wanted to rid the land of the plague of witches, he had wished to make his land free of sorcery and witchery for all time to come. Many times he had wavered when friends, and even relatives, proved guilty; but resolutely, without fear or favor, he had administered the Law.
The leader was speaking. "You were sentenced to torture and death!" he said in somber tones. "Such was the sentence decided on!"
A pause—Mynheer twisted his hands, his face suddenly pale and beaded with cold drops.
Again the leader spoke, solemnly, impressively, and the eyes that gleamed blackly through the veil held something of pity. "Torture and death! Such was the sentence. But—this sentence will not be carried out—not completely! You shall not die through our hands!—For there is worse than death that has struck you! Perhaps it is the Hand of God! We assembled tonight to carry out the sentence on you. But we found that others had been at work! We found that they had seized you—grief-stricken fathers they were, men fully as crazed with fear of witches as you—they had captured the witch of witches, as they thought—had tried her before your court, tortured her and hung her. Their vengeance is gruesome!"
What did it all mean? Mynheer van Ragevoort seemed paralyzed. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, all his features expressed complete lack of understanding.
"You know not," continued the leader, "who the witch of witches was? Nor will I tell you. They blinded you, Sir Justice, and blind was your judgment. But a taste of the torture shall be yours, and then you will be freed. Perhaps—perhaps you will be more forbearing hereafter. To work, men!"
Strong hands seized Mynheer van Ragevoort and quickly stripped him of his clothes. In a trice, so it seemed, they bore him to the torture chamber and looped the ropes around his wrists and ankles.
A spin of the drums, the ropes tautened and squeaked, pain unbearable shot through his limbs and scorched his joints.
"Another turn!" commanded the leader.
Agonized sweat rolled over the Justice's body, li is mouth sagged and a croak came from his throat. "I—I—confess!" he moaned.
"Confess!" exclaimed the leader in chill tones. "Confess—what?"
The taut body could not even writhe—could only quiver. "I—I—know not!" Mynheer gasped.
"Nor we!" the leader made a gesture, the drums swung back a half-turn and tightened with a jerk.
Suffering indescribable tore into him—the Justice fainted. Water splashed over his head awoke him. God! Now he knew that crazing agony! He had sometimes wondered why the accused gave in so readily, after a few whirls of the drums! He had been inclined to despise them as weaklings. Guilt alone could not endure, innocence certainly must! But
