“Indeed thou mightest do better. I will show thee more. Keep thine eyes and ears open for all the gossip of the city. I know thee well enough to know that thou wouldst not see any one burned alive and I go to save one from the burning. If thou hearest aught of inquisitors come as far south along the road as thou mayest.”
Wilfred bade good-bye and promised by all that was holy that he would do everything that he could.
Ian had decided to take nothing but one small wallet, as less likely to rouse suspicion, and started off. What was his horror, before he had gone ten paces from the door, to see a group of black robed figures on horseback approaching the hostelry, and his horror increased to terror when he recognised one of the figures as Father Austin, who had superintended, when he himself had been tortured in York.
The keen shrewd face shewed instant recognition in spite of Ian’s altered appearance. “Whither away, Ian Menstrie? Come return to the hostelry with us and have a talk with an old friend.” An evil smile of triumph spread over his face and he added quietly but firmly to his attendants,—“That is the man we have sought these many months, our Lady hath delivered him into our hands.”
Ian said nothing, but Wilfred, who was still standing at the door, said,—“That is not Ian Menstrie, that is Master James Mitchell.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Mitchell,” said Father Austin sarcastically, bowing from his horse.
“My name is Ian Menstrie,” said Ian.
“You have varying names then, like a gaol-bird,” replied the inquisitor with a sneer.
“We shall have two for our burning, perdy!” he continued to his companion. “It will make a right merrie blaze. What think you, Father Martin?”
“Burning’s too good for them; I would give them a taste of something first. As for that young witch up in Holwick, the Devil will be sorry to see her in Hell before her time. If she had lived to grow up, she would have charmed men’s souls to Satan more surely than any siren ever charmed a mariner.”