“Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow.”
He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on either side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall, and the ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from it. Beyond the moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and hills, valleys and depths.
All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die on the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the fiery death designed for him on the morrow.
And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a window, right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces of some of the hopeful pupils of the “Old Man,” forgotten and left, when the rest were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge, the same death awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with pitiless eyes, as inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow. They had probably been looking forward to the occasion, as a Spaniard to his auto da fe, as an interesting spectacle.
Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and cruelty becomes a delight. God preserve us from such possibilities, which make us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the Mussulman, the Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not moralise here.
All eyes were drawn to the spot. The “Old Man” himself, now first heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was tottering; it bent inward, an awful crash, and—
At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind. In a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a head, not Hubert’s, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He lingered not an instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on the other sentinel, a moment’s clashing of blades, the skill of the knight prevailed, and the Moslem was cleft to the chin.
“Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!”
And Hubert leapt over the wall.
He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for him his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to guide himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley, through which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled merrily along.