Hildebrand lifted his hand; there was a lull, and he spoke. “Silence, slaves! There is no sanctuary against sorcery.”
Perpetua, clinging to the pillar, echoed his word in horror. “Sorcery!”
“Ay,” repeated Hildebrand. “Sorcery. The King swears you have cast spells upon him, delivering him madness in a draught of well-water, that you are a damnable sorceress.”
Through the confused clamor that followed this charge, Perpetua’s voice rang out.
“This is the wickedest story ever told.”
“People of Syracuse,” Robert called, “do not believe this man. She is the victim of a wicked King. As you have wives, daughters, sweethearts, stand by me and save her.”
He appealed eagerly to the crowd, rushing to man after man among them, but each shook his head and hung back, daunted by the terrible charge of witchcraft.
“Sorcery’s a vile thing,” said one.
“I’ll not meddle with sorcery,” said another.