“The opportunity you desired of having your courage put to the test is now arrived,” said the latter to the prisoner.
“What am I to do?” was the reply.
“Remove your doublet, and prostrate yourself,” subjoined Ipgreve.
Guy Fawkes obeyed, and when in this posture began audibly to recite a prayer to the Virgin.
“Be silent,” cried the lieutenant, “or a gag shall be thrust into your mouth.”
Kneeling upon the prisoner's shoulders, and passing the hoop under his legs, Ipgreve then succeeded, with the help of his assistants, who added their weight to his own, in fastening the hoop with an iron button. This done, they left the prisoner with his limbs and body so tightly compressed together that he was scarcely able to breathe. In this state he was allowed to remain for an hour and a half. The chirurgeon then found on examination that the blood had burst profusely from his mouth and nostrils, and in a slighter degree from the extremities of his hands and feet.
“He must be released,” he observed in an under tone to the lieutenant. “Further continuance might be fatal.”
Accordingly, the hoop was removed, and it was at this moment that the prisoner underwent the severest trial. Despite his efforts to control himself, a sharp convulsion passed across his frame, and the restoration of impeded circulation and respiration occasioned him the most acute agony.
The chirurgeon bathed his temples with vinegar, and his limbs being chafed by the officials, he was placed on a bench.
“My warrant directs me to begin with the 'gentler tortures,' and to proceed by degrees to extremities,” observed the lieutenant, significantly. “You have now had a taste of the milder sort, and may form some conjecture what the worst are like. Do you still continue contumacious?”