They had fastened a rope about Mellis’s neck, and the man who held the end of the rope had crowned himself with a wreath of wild flowers. Another fellow who walked behind had a garland on his spear. Fulk de Lisle’s allegory burned itself into Martin Valliant’s brain. This beautiful nakedness was to be sacrificed to shame him.
Old Swartz was cursing to himself. He glanced up at Martin and stared in an awed way at the man’s white and shining face.
He saw Martin cross himself.
“Some day I shall kill that man,” he said, as though he were praying; “I shall not die till I have killed him.”
Mellis was led through the long grass to the green bower. She looked at the ground, but once her eyes lifted to the tower with one tremulous glance of appeal. And Martin’s soul struggled like a live thing in a cage.
“It shall not happen!” he said. “By the greatness of God, it shall not happen!”
The men led her into the bower and made her lie down upon the bed. One of them tossed a riding-cloak over her. They cut the rope into four pieces, and tied her by her wrists and ankles to the four stakes. Their work was done; they threw their garlands on the ground, and went off laughing and looking mockingly at Woodmere tower.
Martin was watching Fulk de Lisle, who came pacing with all the airs of a great lord toward the place where Mellis lay.
“What a chance to shoot the red devil!”
Swartz rubbed his hands together.