“The Bishop,” he said, “is gone forth of his house.  He is in attendance at the trial of a woman for witchcraft, one whom some of the common city folk hold to be a saint.  But the young Duke and others swear that she is a witch, and hath murdered the Duke Casimir.  Haste thee with the horses, sirrah, and attend me to the Hall of Justice.  I have sent a messenger forward with my credentials to the Bishop Peter.”

So to the corner of the yard I went and rubbed down the horses with a wisp of straw which Peter of the Pigs brought me, and which smelled of his charges too.  Then, with another piece of money in his hand, I sent him out to the nearest corn-chandler’s to buy some corn for our beasts, the which I gave them, and stood by them till I saw them eat it too.  For in such a poverty-stricken place, and with a gentleman of the capacity of Master Peter of the Pigs, one that is in any way fond of his horses cannot be too careful.

This done, I announced myself to my master as ready to accompany him.

Then, through the streets of Thorn, all strangely empty, we took our way.  Women were leaning out of windows; every head turned castleward up the street.

They hardly deigned a glance at my master or at myself, but continued to gaze.  And as each passenger came down the street from the direction of the Wolfsberg they cried questions at him, so that he ran the gantlet of a dropping fire of shrill queries.

“What are they doing to the sweet saint up yonder?”

“Hath she been put to the Question?”

“Who could be executioner in such a case?  A man would be sent to hell-fire for daring to lay hand on her.”

The popular sympathies ran clearly with the accused, which is not, as our old Hanne had reason to remember, the rule in trials for witchcraft.

Soon we were passing the gate of the Red Tower.  It was barred and closed.  The windows of my father’s house looked barrenly down, like the eye-holes of skulls.  I saw the window from which I used to gaze wistfully down upon the children, who would not play with me, but spat upon the tower when they saw me looking at their play and pipings upon the streets.

There above was the window of my father’s garret, with the edge of the black flag blowing out above it.

The streetward door of the Judgment Hall was open, and a great crowd of people stood about, silent, anxious, respectful.  Some of them talked in low tones, and whenever there was a word passed out of the door, within which men looked ten deep, it scattered all about like a wave which comes into a sea-cave by a narrow entrance, and then widens out till it breaks gently in the wide inner hall.

“She is not to be tortured; only the Hereditary Executioner may do that.  They have threatened the old woman.  She has confessed all!”

So ran the words about the crowd, and ever and anon, one would detach himself from the press, elbowing his way out, and then speed down the long street, crying the latest tidings of the trial.