“Raise him, that I may look at him,” said the Earl of Arundel to the officer.
The execution of the order gave the poor wretch so much pain that he could not repress a groan. But though he was suffering excruciating agony, his courage did not desert him, and his answers to the interrogations put to him showed unfaltering resolution. Threats of torture could wring nothing from him, and he sternly refused to betray his accomplices.
“I gave no orders to have his wounds dressed,” said the mayor. “By whom hath he been tended, Piers?”
“By Master Malwood, the chirurgeon,” replied the officer.
“I thank him not for his care,” said the prisoner. “Had he let me be, I had ere this escaped man’s malice.”
“He speaks the truth, an please your worship,” observed Piers. “Master Malwood declared, that if left to himself, the poor wretch would die before the morning.”
“But who sent for Master Malwood, answer me that, Sirrah?” demanded the mayor.
“Nay, I am not to blame, your worship,” rejoined Piers, humbly. “The chirurgeon was sent by Mistress Constance Tyrrell, at her proper charge.”
“This is the second ill turn she hath done me,” said Derrick Carver. “But for her, the idolatrous tyrant had not escaped me, and now she preserves me for a lingering death.”
“Thou art like the wild beast, who would tear the hand put forth to succour him,” cried the mayor, in disgust. “Will it please your good lordship to question[question] him further?”