Presently he looked up. He had cut a Greek cross in the chalk floor.
"Number two!" he ordered.
Then the wretch who was seized burst from his captors, rushed up to Ogier, threw himself on his knees, and implored to be spared. He would do anything. He would forswear the English. He would never plunder again.
Old Del' Peyra looked at him coldly.
"Did you ever spare one who fell into your hands? Did you spare Rossignol? Make him walk the beam."
The shrieking wretch was lifted by strong arms on to the rafter; he refused to stand, he threw himself on his knees, he struggled, bit, prayed, sobbed—all the manhood was gone out of him.
"Thrust him through the window," said one. "If he will not walk the beam he shall cling to it."
The brigand's efforts were in vain. He was driven through the opening. In his frantic efforts to save himself he gripped the rafter, hanging from it, his legs swinging in space.
"Cut off his fingers," said one.
Then the man, to escape a blow from an axe, ran his hands along, put them on glowing red charcoal, and dropped.