"Nay, it was for love of thee. I have no son, and my bowels yearned for one; it was gentle violence for thine own good. I know not how it was, but I could not even then have done more than frighten thee. Thou wilt see I can hurt others without wincing. Say, wouldst thou fear to see what torture is like? it may fall to thy duty to inflict it some day, and in these times one must get hardened either to inflict or endure."
"I may as well learn all I have to learn; but I love it not. I do not object to fighting; but in cold blood——"
"Well, here is the door which descends to the lower realms."
They descended through a yawning portal to the dungeons. The steps were of gray stone: they went down some twenty or thirty, and then entered a corridor—dark and gloomy—from which opened many doors on either side.
Dark, but not silent. Many a sigh, many a groan, came from behind those doors, but neither Brian nor his squire heeded them.
"Which shall I open first?" said Tustain.
"The cell of Nathan, the Abingdon Jew."
The door was a huge block of stone, turning upon a pivot. It disclosed a small recess, about six feet by four, paved with stone, upon which lay some foul and damp litter. A man was crouched upon this, with a long, matted beard, looking the picture of helpless misery.
"Well, Nathan, hast been my guest long enough? Will not change of air do thee good?"