“Yes, but we will give him something on account,” shouted a voice in bitter blasphemy. “Well climbed, Jan, well climbed,” and they looked up to see, sixty feet above their heads, seated upon the arm of the lofty Rood, a man with a candle bound upon his brow and a coil of rope upon his back.
“He’ll fall,” said one.
“Pish!” answered another, “it is steeplejack Jan, who can hang on a wall like a fly.”
“Look out for the ends of the rope,” cried the thin voice above, and down they came.
“Spare me,” screamed the wretched priest, as his executioners caught hold of him.
“Yes, yes, as you spared the Heer Jansen a few months ago.”
“It was to save his soul,” groaned Dominic.
“Quite so, and now we are going to save yours; your own medicine, father, your own medicine.”
“Spare me, and I will tell you where the others are.”
“Well, where are they?” asked the ringleader, pushing his companions away.