To-day he saw neither this youth nor Dorothy. But suddenly, as he stood waiting his gaoler’s leisure, he was aware of Joan Heron.... From somewhere came a red sunset light, and it followed and enwrapped her as she moved. She was moving with her arm in the grasp of a man of a curious and sinister look—moving by the wall at the end of the room—moving across, then back again, across again and back, across and back.... Aderhold drew near, and it was as though an iron hand closed hard upon and wrung his heart.
Joan went very slowly, dragging her limbs, more haled by the man than moving of volition. Her form swayed, seemed as if all and only its desire was to sink together, fall upon the earth and lie there with time and motion ended in one stroke. Her head was sunken forward, her eyes closed.
The man shook her savagely. “No sleeping!—When you are willing to tell your witch deeds, then you shall sleep!”
“Joan! Joan!” cried Aderhold. He moved beside the two. The man looked at him but, stupid or curious, neither thrust him off nor dragged his charge away. It was but for a moment.
Joan opened her eyes. “You?” she said. “All I want is to sleep, sleep—”
Her face was ghastly, exhausted. Aderhold uttered a groan. “Do they not let you sleep either?” she said. “Five days, five nights—and I am thirsty, too.”
He managed to touch her hand. “Joan, Joan—”
She looked at him with lustreless eyes. “The others have all made up something to confess. But though I die, I will not. They may twist a cord around my head and I will not.” A spasm crossed her face. “Of their vileness they may set the witch-pricker on me and I will not.” Her voice, monotonous and low, died away. The man haled her by the arm, forcing her to walk. She reeled against him. “Sleep ... sleep. Oh, let me sleep!” A door opened. The man with her looked up, nodded, put his hands on both her shoulders and pushed her toward it. Her eyes closed again, her head sank forward. Together the two vanished, leaving to Aderhold a sense of midnight and the abyss.