The water was brought; the executioner lit a great fire of wood in the field; the smoke rose up blue into the clear sky through the verdurous branches of the lime tree of justice.
“Do not put the letter in the basin,” said an alderman “for if it is written with sal ammoniac dissolved in water, you will efface the characters.”
“Nay,” said the surgeon, who was there, “the characters will not be effaced; the water will soften only the point that keeps the magic ball from opening up.”
The parchment was dipped in the water and being softened, was unfolded.
“Now,” said the surgeon, “put it before the fire.”
“Aye, aye,” said Nele, “put the paper before the fire; master surgeon is on the road to the truth, for the murderer grows pale and trembles in his limbs.”
Thereupon, Messire Joos Damman said:
“I neither grew pale nor trembled, thou little common harpy that art fain of the death of a man of rank; thou shalt never succeed; this parchment must needs be rotten, after sixteen years’ sojourning in the earth.”
“The parchment is not decayed,” said the sheriff, “for the satchel was lined with silk; silk is not consumed in the earth, and the worms have not gone through the parchment.”
The parchment was put in front of the fire.