“Yes,” interrupted the bishop decisively.
“I cannot,” feebly muttered the magistrate.
“It is his demand—the law of the Empire! Dare you fail to enforce it?”
The quiet tone of this last question was ominous and the magistrate moved uneasily; he pondered the marble floor; sometimes he glanced sideways at the bishop and once, lifting his eye to the wife, shuddered. Then the bishop touched him firmly on the arm and, turning to the first secretary on his left, he lifted his hand and the clerk brought him the Vermilion Pencil.
“It is done.”
Again the lips of the bishop twitched.
“Remember,” he said, leaning over and whispering in the magistrate’s ear, “I hold you responsible for the carrying out of the law. Beware she does not die beforehand.”
The magistrate rose without replying and, followed by all of his retinue other than the first clerk, passed out of the hall. The bishop leaned back in his chair, pulled and cracked his long bony fingers until one of the priests came and spoke to him. A frown passed across his face, but he rose hastily, and, as he passed the wife she looked up, moving close to him.
“Will he be free?” she asked timidly.
The bishop lowered his head and, as he whispered, her eyes sparkled with joy. She clapped her little hands together and uttered a happy cry.