A minute later Adrian found himself in the street, towards which he had been helped by the kick of a heavy boot. His first impulse was to run, and he ran for half a mile or more without stopping, till at length he paused breathless in a deserted street, and, leaning against the wheel of an unharnessed waggon, tried to think. Think! How could he think? His mind was one mad whirl; rage, shame, disappointed passion, all boiled in it like bones in a knacker’s cauldron. He had been fooled, he had lost his love, and, oh! infamy, he had betrayed his kindred to the hell of the Inquisition. They would be tortured and burnt. Yes, even his mother and Elsa might be burned, since those devils respected neither age nor sex, and their blood would be upon his head. It was true that he had signed under compulsion, but who would believe that, for had they not taken down his talk word for word? For once Adrian saw himself as he was; the cloaks of vanity and self-love were stripped from his soul, and he knew what others would think when they came to learn the story. He thought of suicide; there was water, here was steel, the deed would not be difficult. No, he could not; it was too horrible. Moreover, how dared he enter the other world so unprepared, so steeped in every sort of evil? What, then, could he do to save his character and those whom his folly had betrayed? He looked round him; there, not three hundred yards away, rose the tall chimney of the factory. Perhaps there was yet time; perhaps he could still warn Foy and Martin of the fate which awaited them.
Acting on the impulse of the moment, Adrian started forward, running like a hare. As he approached the building he saw that the workmen had left, for the big doors were shut. He raced round to the small entrance; it was open—he was through it, and figures were moving in the office. God be praised! They were Foy and Martin. To them he sped, a white-faced creature with gaping mouth and staring eyes, to look at more like a ghost than a human being.
Martin and Foy saw him and shrank back. Could this be Adrian, they thought, or was it an evil vision?
“Fly!” he gasped. “Hide yourselves! The officers of the Inquisition are after you!” Then another thought struck him, and he stammered, “My father and mother. I must warn them!” and before they could speak he had turned and was gone, as he went crying, “Fly! Fly!”
Foy stood astonished till Martin struck him on the shoulder, and said roughly:
“Come, let us get out of this. Either he is mad, or he knows something. Have you your sword and dagger? Quick, then.”
They passed through the door, which Martin paused to lock, and into the courtyard. Foy reached the gate first, and looked through its open bars. Then very deliberately he shot the bolts and turned the great key.
“Are you brain-sick,” asked Martin, “that you lock the gate on us?”
“I think not,” replied Foy, as he came back to him. “It is too late to escape. Soldiers are marching down the street.”
Martin ran and looked through the bars. It was true enough. There they came, fifty men or more, a whole company, headed straight for the factory, which it was thought might be garrisoned for defence.