With an ugly grin the Butcher, taking his fingers from Adrian’s throat, gripped his captive’s left wrist, and very slowly and deliberately began to screw it round.
Adrian groaned.
“Painful, isn’t it?” said Ramiro. “Well, I have no more time to waste, break his arm.”
Then Adrian gave in, for he was not fitted to bear torture; his imagination was too lively.
“I will sign,” he whispered, the perspiration pouring from his pale face.
“Are you quite sure you do it willingly?” queried his tormentor, adding, “another little half-turn, please, Simon; and you, Mistress Meg, if he begins to faint, just prick him in the thigh with your knife.”
“Yes, yes,” groaned Adrian.
“Very good. Now here is the pen. Sign.”
So Adrian signed.
“I congratulate you upon your discretion, pupil,” remarked Ramiro, as he scattered sand on the writing and pocketed the paper. “To-day you have learned a very useful lesson which life teaches to most of us, namely, that the inevitable must rule our little fancies. Let us see; I think that by now the soldiers will have executed their task, so, as you have done what I wished, you can go, for I shall know where to find you if I want you. But, if you will take my advice, which I offer as that of one friend to another, you will hold your tongue about the events of this afternoon. Unless you speak of it, nobody need ever know that you have furnished certain useful information, for in the Gevangenhuis the names of witnesses are not mentioned to the accused. Otherwise you may possibly come into trouble with your heretical friends and relatives. Good afternoon. Brother, be so good as to open the door for this gentleman.”