“The elder sorceress, or the younger?”
“The younger—the—”
“The Senora de Soto? Ah, poor thing! One could be sorry for her, were she not a heretic.” And the man eyed Eustace keenly, and then quietly added, “She is at present with the notary; to the benefit of her soul, I trust—”
Eustace half stopped, shuddering. He could hardly collect himself enough to gasp out an “Amen!”
“Within there,” said the man, pointing carelessly to a door as they went down the corridor. “We can listen a moment, if you like; but don't betray me, senor.”
Eustace knows well enough that the fellow is probably on the watch to betray him, if he shows any signs of compunction; at least to report faithfully to his superiors the slightest expression of sympathy with a heretic; but a horrible curiosity prevails over fear, and he pauses close to the fatal door. His face is all of a flame, his knees knock together, his ears are ringing, his heart bursting through his ribs, as he supports himself against the wall, hiding his convulsed face as well as he can from his companion.
A man's voice is plainly audible within; low, but distinct. The notary is trying that old charge of witchcraft, which the Inquisitors, whether to justify themselves to their own consciences, or to whiten their villainy somewhat in the eyes of the mob, so often brought against their victims. And then Eustace's heart sinks within him as he hears a woman's voice reply, sharpened by indignation and agony—
“Witchcraft against Don Guzman? What need of that, oh God! what need?”
“You deny it then, senora? we are sorry for you; but—”
A confused choking murmur from the victim, mingled with words which might mean anything or nothing.