now he knew! Oh, to escape this torment! Anything, anything—even death! But to escape!
A searing pain at his sides, yet he knew not whether it was hot or cold metal that touched him! And then the ropes became slack. What they did with him he scarcely knew—his whole body ached with tearing pains! And his head! It pounded and pounded and pounded.
A raw pang on his forefinger seemed to swell and swell until his arm—no, his body—grew large with the torment. What were they doing? He saw it—a pincer was plucking at a fingernail, slowly pulling it from its foundation. God! What could he do to get away from such torture? Waves of pain welled forth from the finger, greater than his body could endure!
Something else! They had bound his wrists behind him; his ankles also were bound and heavy weights attached. Why this? Why didn't they simply kill him and be done with it?
A hook slipped under his fettered wrists, there was a pull, and suddenly he soared, his weighted body suspended by the wrists. And then he dropped. Again they drew him aloft and dropped him. Shoulders twisted and cracked and ached, his body seemed an immense pain. He fainted.
A rocking motion aroused him. He was dressed and covered with a cloth; they were carrying him! He felt strangely numb, conscious of ever-present but subdued pain. And so weary, so weak, so exhausted!
At last the motion changed. They had entered some dwelling and now they laid him down. Steps moved away, and then someone spoke—the leader!
"The sentence has been executed, Sir Justice! May it teach you to be more merciful hereafter! We leave you now—with your victim!"
Half-conscious, he wondered. "My victim?" he asked, his voice muffled by the enveloping cloth.
"Look and see!" in a chilling whisper. There were quick steps, the slam of a door, and then silence.
Mynheer van Ragevoort scrambled painfully to his feet, weakened hands tore at the enshrouding folds. There!—he saw light—the cloth fell away. But he knew that room—those paintings—that table, the chairs—why, he was in his own home! So they had carried him to his house, his castle!
He was thankful for even that. But why this strange, oppressive silence in the house? Where were the servants? And his
His roving eyes caught sight of something. Over there, on the great divan, lay something very limp and still, covered with a white drape. That—that—his victim, the leader had said! But in this house—was it—everything was so silent—was it his? No, no, it must not be!
He crept weakly to the divan and tore the sheet from the still figure. "God! Anne-Marie! My daughter!"
He stared at her, unbelieving, uncomprehending. His victim? Oh, no! Not that, not that! But it was his daughter that lay there, lifeless, features frozen in an eternal mask.
Slowly he inspected her. Quivering fingers felt the soft flesh, not yet rigored in death. He saw raw welts around her wrists and bare ankles. Around her neck an irregular stripe—they had hanged her!
His victim! It was she—Anne-Marie, his daughter!—that had been tried as the witch of witches that night! They had tortured her and—and he—he had ordered the torture! "And she confessed!" he groaned. "I—I ordered—her execution—as a witch! God!"
The room reeled and he crashed to the floor.
