"A wise man of his hands, by St. Bacchus. Well, lords, what am I to do for the young knight?"
"Show him upon another what may happen to himself, an he doth not tell what he knows," directed Mocenigo.
Bartolommeo pursed up his lips.
"As you will, fair sir, as you will," he assented doubtingly. "But I know this breed. 'Tis a stubborn one, a desperate one, a strong-backed one! Hast knowledge of——"
"Have done," said Mocenigo. "'Tis no pleasant thought—the prospect of looking forward to having his eyes burned out. Doubt not he will weaken."
"As ordered, Magnificence, as ordered," assented Bartolommeo. "Bide but a moment."
He withdrew through the door by which he had entered, to return immediately dragging a miserable young Greek, whose arms and legs were fettered together.
"There is naught about this to be sorry for," he remarked cheerfully, as he deposited his victim on the floor beside the brazier and beckoned several of the guards to his side. "He hath a foul record as an iconoclast, and is charged with conspiring against our good lord, the Emperor. So!"
He removed one of the long-handled irons from the fire, and the guards pinned down the hapless wretch upon the floor. Hugh shut his eyes and gripped his teeth together.... There was an awful wail of agony ... a smell of burning ... a meaningless babble of pain and expostulation.
"Neatly done, and I do claim credit for myself," said Bartolommeo, as he thrust the iron back into the brazier. "Take him forth, guards. An he doth not confess whence he had the poison found in his possession, he is to have his right hand lopped off this day week."