It was manifestly impossible for us to obtain entrance by this door.  So we looked about for another.

Then I minded me of the private passage which led from the inner court-yard which I knew so well.  We skirted the crowd, with our attendant following, till we came to the side door, which led directly into the Hall of Judgment behind the judges’ high seats.

It was the way by which many a time I had seen my father enter, either in his dress of black or in that of red.  And I was always glad when I saw him put on the scarlet, because I knew that then the worst was over for some poor tortured soul.

But when my master proposed that the attendant of the Bishop should carry a letter into the hall to his master to inform him that we waited without, the man trembled in every limb, and the hair of his head shocked itself up in sheer terror.

“I cannot—­I dare not,” he cried; “it is the place of torture—­of the engines—­the strappado—­the water-drop, the leg-crushers!”

And at this point the vision of what was contained within the fatal door became so appalling to him that he picked up his skirts and fled, looking over his shoulder all the while to make sure that the Red Axe was not after him full tilt.

So Dessauer and I were left standing.  And if the matter had been less serious, it would have been comical to see us thus deserted upon mine own middenstead, as it were.

“Bishop Peter of Thorn seems a prelate somewhat difficult of approach,” said the Chancellor.  “I wonder if we shall ever lay any salt on his tail?”

“Let us risk it and go in,” said I.  “We are putting all our cards on the table, at any rate.  And at least we can see all that is to be sees.  If there is any risk of Von Reuss penetrating our disguises, it is as well to gulp and get it over at once, rather than suck gingerly at it till the fear of death chills our marrow.”

“Go on, then,” he said, somewhat crossly; “there is indeed naught to be gained by standing here as a butt for the eyes of evil-doers.”

So I opened the door carefully, and with a trembling heart.  The hum of a great assembly breathed turbidly upon us in a hushed chaos of sound.  The warm, stifling atmosphere, heavy with a thousand respirations, the sound of a voice speaking loud and clear, the thunder of continuous heels on the paved floor, the voices of the ushers crying, “Silentium!” at intervals—­these all came suddenly upon us as we shut out the air and sunshine and went into the Hall of Judgment.

We could not see the full assembly at first.  We stood, as I had supposed, directly behind the judges’ rostrum.  Only the corners of the vast crowd which covered the floor and filled the galleries could be seen—­a blur of white faces all bent towards one point.  But at the corner, not far from us, a tall, spare, gray-headed ecclesiastic was speaking.

We stood still, in order that we might not interrupt by entering till he had finished.