"Did you ever read a history of the Spanish Inquisition, Mr. Deputy?" asked the warden's wife.
"Yes'm!" was the immediate reply. "This is just like it, isn't it?"
"Well, Dougherty, you will be content now, and go to chapel next Sunday, will you not?" asked the lady, touching the convict's sleeve.
He lifted his heavy eyes. He was still catching his breath like one who sobs. "I will die before I will go to hear the name of God and of his truth blasphemed!" he answered, speaking with difficulty.
"But if you should be again put up in the strings?"
He shivered, but replied without hesitation, "He that died upon the cross will strengthen me."
"The fellow is a fool!" muttered one of the guard.
"May God multiply such fools!" cried Mrs. Raynor, turning upon the speaker. Then to the convict, "I will urge you no more. I am not capable of judging for you, and you do not need help nor advice from me. Go your own way."
Dougherty's own way was to persist in his refusal to attend chapel; and since the officers had no choice but to punish him for his disobedience, it chanced that for the next four weeks he was put up in the strings every Sunday morning.
"It shall not be done again," the warden said then. "He has but a fortnight longer to stay; and, rule or no rule, he shall do as he likes."