From that moment the cantor saw nothing for the darkness, but all the more horrible, therefore, were the pictures which his imagination painted for him as it laid hold of the fragments of words and sounds which reached him at intervals from the outhouse.
The cold-blooded murmuring of the headsman's assistant.
The inquisitorial procedure of the rector.
The frantic cursing of the bystanders.
And from time to time a despairing howl uttered by the tortured monster, a howl which set the terrified dog a-barking, and made him scratch up the ground beneath the gate in order to make his escape.
The cantor began to shiver as with ague.
"The horrible beast won't confess," he heard a couple of furious voices say quite close to him.
"Don't howl like that, but answer my questions," hissed the rector, evidently losing patience.
"The wretched creature tires me out," grunted the executioner. "He bites his lips and smiles right in my face when his very bones are cracking."
"Speak the truth, and you shall be free. We will let you go."