The long night wore away in silence, broken only by the groans and prayers of prisoners in dens upon the same floor, or with the solemn rhythm of hymns sung by those above, till at length the light, creeping through the dungeon lattices, told them that it was morning. At its first ray Martin awoke much refreshed, for even there his health and weariness had brought sleep to him. Foy also awoke, stiff and sore, but in his right mind and very hungry. Then Martin found the loaves and the stockfish, and they filled themselves, washing down the meal with water, after which he dressed Foy’s wounds, making a poultice for them out of the crumb of the bread, and doctored his own bruises as best he could.
It must have been ten o’clock or later when again the doors were opened, and men appeared who commanded that they should follow them.
“One of us can’t walk,” said Martin; “still, perhaps I can manage,” and, lifting Foy in his arms as though he had been a baby, he passed with the jailers out of the den, down the stair, and into the court-room. Here, seated behind a table, they found Ramiro and the little, squeaky-voiced, red-faced Inquisitor.
“Heaven above us!” said the Inquisitor, “what a great hairy ruffian; it makes me feel nervous to be in the same place with him. I beg you, Governor Ramiro, instruct your soldiers to be watching and to stab him at the first movement.”
“Have no fear, noble sir,” answered Ramiro, “the villain is quite unarmed.”
“I daresay, I daresay, but let us get on. Now what is the charge against these people? Ah! I see, heresy like the last upon the evidence of—oh! well, never mind. Well, we will take that as proved, and, of course, it is enough. But what more? Ah! here it is. Escaped from The Hague with the goods of a heretic, killed sundry of his Majesty’s lieges, blew up others on the Haarlemer Meer, and yesterday, as we know for ourselves, committed a whole series of murders in resisting lawful arrest. Prisoners, have you anything to say?”
“Plenty,” answered Foy.
“Then save your trouble and my time, since nothing can excuse your godless, rebellious, and damnable behaviour. Friend Governor, into your hands I deliver them, and may God have mercy on their souls. See, by the way, that you have a priest at hand to shrive them at last, if they will be shriven, just for the sake of charity, but all the other details I leave to you. Torment? Oh! of course if you think there is anything to be gained by it, or that it will purify their souls. And now I will be going on to Haarlem, for I tell you frankly, friend Governor, that I don’t think this town of Leyden safe for an honest officer of the law; there are too many bad characters here, schismatics and resisters of authority. What? The warrant not ready? Well, I will sign it in blank. You can fill it in. There. God forgive you, heretics; may your souls find peace, which is more, I fear, than your bodies will for the next few hours. Bah! friend Governor, I wish that you had not made me assist at the execution of that girl last night, especially as I understand she leaves no property worth having; her white face haunts my mind, I can’t be rid of the look of those great eyes. Oh! these heretics, to what sorrow do they put us orthodox people! Farewell, friend Governor; yes, I think I will go out by the back way, some of those turbulent citizens might be waiting in front. Farewell, and temper justice with mercy if you can,” and he was gone.
Presently Ramiro, who had accompanied him to the gate, returned. Seating himself on the further side of the table, he drew his rapier and laid it before him. Then, having first commanded them to bring a chair in which Foy might sit, since he could not stand because of his wounded leg, he told the guard to fall back out of hearing, but to be ready should he need them.
“Not much dignity about that fellow,” he said, addressing Martin and Foy in a cheerful voice; “quite different from the kind of thing you expected, I daresay. No hooded Dominican priests, no clerks taking notes, no solemnities, nothing but a little red-faced wretch, perspiring with terror lest the mob outside should catch him, as for my part I hope they may. Well, gentlemen, what can you expect, seeing that, to my knowledge, the man is a bankrupt tailor of Antwerp? However, it is the substance we have to deal with, not the shadow, and that’s real enough, for his signature on a death warrant is as good as that of the Pope, or his gracious Majesty King Philip, or, for the matter of that, of Alva himself. Therefore, you are—dead men.”