"Being descended, in the male line, direct from Adam."
"Despite this insolence, I repeat, my lords, that I tell you—truth!"
"Knave, thou dost not tell the truth," exclaimed Kilmaurs, who became pallid with fury; "so, beware, lest we have thy tongue torn out by the roots and nailed on Hamilton cross, to feed the gleds and hoodicrows. I have seen such done ere this."
"If he lieth, the event shall prove," said Glencairn; "let him be disarmed, and bound to the iron cruick above the hall fire; then pile on wetted wood and green boughs, till we smoke the secrets out of him."
A shout of fierce and derisive acclamation greeted this suggestion of an impromptu mode of torture not uncommon in those old lawless times; and the tone of defiance assumed by the victim was lost amid the bantering laughter and insults of more than thirty voices. Surrounded on all hands, he had only power left to run one assailant through the body, and before he could withdraw his sword to repeat the thrust, a score of heavy hands were laid upon him, those of his host, Allan of Millheugh, being among the most active. His sword and poniard were at once rent away, and he was dragged over the blood-stained floor towards the large arched fireplace. In the lust of blood, the feudal, or political, or religious rancour which animated those at whose mercy he was now so completely cast, they struggled with each other for who should give him a blow or a buffet, and contended vehemently for the office of binding him to the iron beam that swung over the blazing fire.
Florence struggled also—but in vain. The united strength and the iron hands of his numerous enemies, noble and ignoble, were irresistible and overpowering.
He strove to cry aloud, but whether for mercy or in defiance, in his bewilderment, he knew not; his voice was gone, and he could scarcely gasp for breath: then how much less was he able to articulate.
"A rope—a rope!" cried Millheugh; "weel wetted, too, lest it burn when we birsel him. Quick, ye loons, quick!"
"Heap damp boughs and green peats on the fire," said Glencairn. "Quick—lest instead of only smoking the secret out of him, we roast him before the right time."
Bruised, bleeding, pale, and powerless, Florence now found himself under the rough arch of the yawning fireplace and the flame of the large pile of blazing fuel that lay heaped on the hearth was already scorching him to the quick! Above his head swung the smoke-blackened bar of the cruick whereon occasionally large pots and cauldrons were hung, and which moved outward or inward, in sockets, like a crane.