The two men filed down a long corridor and the guard knocked at a door.
“Have we your grace’s permission?” asked the guard.
“Come in.”
They entered an office with two large windows that afforded a view of the trees on the square. Before the desk was the judge, seated in a high-backed chair. Opposite the desk was a closet in the Gothic style, filled with books. A clerk kept entering and leaving, carrying heaps of documents under his arm; the judge would ask him a stray question and then hurriedly sign a paper.
When he had finished, the guard, cap in hand, approached the judge and informed him in a few words as to Manuel. The magistrate threw a hurried glance at the boy, who, at that moment, was thinking:
“I’ll have to tell the truth; for, if I don’t, they’ll tear it out of me and it’ll be so much the worse.”
This decision infused him with a great tranquillity.
“Step closer,” said the judge.
Manuel came over to the desk.