Where we roved, what we did, who can say? Not I. Whether the satyrs robbed churches, whether they destroyed caravans, burned cities, desecrated convents and routed their inmates, plundered mines, devastated estates—who can say?
Whether I assisted at all the crimes they committed, or at only one—or whether I took part in none—who can say?
Was I the satyr that flung back into his burning house the usurious Jew who had escaped from it? or was I the one that rescued a babe from the flames and bore it on his saddle to the mother's arms?
Was I the satyr who placed the mine under the convent and exploded it? or was I the one who warned the nuns in time for them to escape—who can say? The mask does not speak.
"Well," observed the prince, "if you don't know; and the mask won't tell, then this entire chapter of your confession must be eliminated from the index."
Then he added further, in order to propitiate the chair: "Why, don't you see, that the prisoner did not become a satyr of his own free will? That he was forced to join the band under pain of death? If, while he was with the robbers, he committed good deeds, or evil, who—as he says himself—can say?"
"Aye, who indeed?" satirically responded the chair. "The mystery of the whole affair is so clear that no one will be able to say whether this valiant and pious Christian ought to be hanged, or this conscienceless reprobate ought to be canonized!"
CHAPTER II.
WITCH-SABBATH.
The satyrs did not ask my name when I joined their band; but bestowed one on me with the mask. They did not select their names from the calendar, but chose the appellations of distinguished satanic personages—as, for instance, there was a Belial; a Semiazaz; a Lucifer; Mephistopholes; Belzebub; Azazel; Samiel; Dromo; Asmodens, Dopziher, Flibbertigibbet, and so on.