A different scene transpired simultaneously in the dungeons below, which, with their accustomed ruthless policy, the Normans had hollowed out of the soil.
The Jew, Abraham of Toledo, was resting uneasily, full of fears--which experience too well justified--as to his personal safety in this den of lions, when he also heard steps, this time descending the stairs, and Geoffrey of Coutances was ushered in.
"Leave the cell," said the bishop to the gaoler, "but remain in the passage. Close the door; I would speak with this penitent, as I trust he will prove, in private."
"Never fear, your holiness," said the gaoler with somewhat undue familiarity; "I care little for a Jew's patter, and this fellow will need a long shrift before they make a roast of him--for that, I suppose, will be the end of it."
The door slammed.
It was a miserable cell, composed of rough stones, lately put together, oozing with the moisture from the damp soil around, for the river was close by and the dungeon beneath its level.
"Art thou prepared to meet thy fitting end?"
"What crime have I committed to deserve death?"
"Thou hast knowingly and wilfully abetted, not one but many poisoners, and the stake is the fitting doom for thee and them."
"Oh! not the stake, God of Abraham. If ye must slay, at least spare the agonising flames; but what mercy can we hope for, we faithful children of Abraham, from Nazarenes?"