"Persevere then in that lie, and die in thy misery."
Osric felt very sick. He had not the nerves of his chief, and now he felt as if he were helping the torture of his own countrymen; and, moreover, there was a yet deeper feeling. Recollections were brought to his mind in that loathsome dungeon which, although indistinct and confused, yet had some connection with his own early life. What had his father been? The grandfather had carefully hidden all those facts, known to the reader, from Osric, but old Judith had dropped obscure hints.
He longed to get out of this accursed depth into the light of day, yet felt ashamed of his own weakness. He heard the misery of these dens turned into a joke by Alain and others every day. He had brought prisoners into the castle himself—for the hideous receptacles—and been complimented on his prowess and success; yet humanity was not quite extinguished in his breast, and he felt sick of the scenes.
But he had not done. They came to the torture-chamber, where recalcitrant prisoners, who would not own their wealth, were hanged up by the feet and smoked with foul smoke: some were hanged up by the thumbs, others by the head, and burning rings were put on their feet. The torturers put knotted strings about men's heads, and writhed them till they went into the brain. In short, the horrid paraphernalia of cruelty was entered into that day with the utmost zest, and all for gold, accursed gold—at least, that was the first object; but we fear at last the mere love of cruelty was half the incitement to such doings.
And all this time Brian sat as judge, and directed the torturers with eye or hand; and Osric had to take notes of the things the poor wretches said in their delirium.
At last it was over, and they ascended to the upper day.
"How dost thou like it, Osric?" said Alain, whom they met on the ramparts.
Osric shook his head.
"It is nothing when you are used to it; I used to feel squeamish at first."
"I never shall like it," whispered Osric.