"The Craft?" Johnnie asked. "And what may that be?"
"We're brethren, this man and I," Hull answered; "we're of the Freemasons, and that is why, master."
Johnnie nodded. He said no more. The whole thing was inexplicable to him. He knew, of course, of the Freemasons, that such a society existed, but no evidence of it had ever come to his knowledge before this night. The persecution of Freemasonry which was to ensue in Queen Elizabeth's reign was not yet, and the Brethren were a very hidden people in 1555.
There was a patter of feet upon the ladder leading up to the forecastle-deck. Perez appeared again with a bundle of papers in his hand.
"Now, then, Señor," he said, "you shall see if this of which I have told you is a system or is not. These are documents, forms, belonging to my brother's business as Notary of the Holy Office. Thus thou wilt see."
He handed a piece of parchment, printed parchment, to Commendone.
Johnnie held it up under the light of the lantern, and read it, with a chilling of the blood.
It was "The Proper Form of Torture for Women," and it was one of many forms left blank for convenience to record the various steps.
As he glanced through it, his lips grew dry, his eyes, straining in the half-sufficient light, seemed to burn.
There was something peculiarly terrible in the very omission of a special name, and the consequent thought of the number of wretches whose vain words and torments had been recorded upon forms like this—and were yet to be recorded—froze the young man into a still figure of horror and of silence.