He gave a convulsive gasp. The whole universe seemed to stand still. So an awful and intolerable silence settled down on all things.
"Who are ye!" he cried at last in desperation, and his voice rang out strident yet quavering, like an ill-tuned violin.
A low, reverberating roll of kettledrums was the only answer, and an uncontrollable shiver shook him, replying to the shudder with which they filled the air.
"Who are ye?"
This time the cry had a wail in it; but once again that roll of kettledrums was the only answer.
"Who are ye?"
It was a mere whisper, hoarse, half-choked; but this time a voice came instant, clear, in reply.
"Unbind his eyes, heralds, and let him see those who judge him."
The flood of moonlight seemed at first to blind him, and even after his eyes recovered sight a mistiness, a vagueness rested on all things. And yet he saw all things; aye! and recognised them, not from personal experience, for the Last Assize was even in those days fast becoming legendary, but from the racial experience which he could not escape.
Aye! Beneath him was the White Stallion of Death standing square upon the square of white cloth, whose purpose sent a shiver of horror through him. Those were the heralds masked, veiled, who rode on black horses beside him, and at their feet curled up, cowering like loathsome reptiles, he could see the two executioners, their long fingers clutching--at what?