We must shift the scene to the torture chamber.

Imagine a long dark room, below the level of the ground, underneath the keep; stone flags below, a vaulted ceiling above; dimly lighted by torches fixed in sconces in the wall; a curtain covering a recess; in front, a chair for Hugo and a table for a scribe, with ink horn and parchment.

Around the table were gathered Hugo himself, his guests Raoul de Broc, Tustain de Wylmcote, Ralph de Bearleigh, his seneschal, chamberlain, and other confidential officers of his household, and four strong brawny men-at-arms—­sufficient to manage the prisoner with ease.

Ordgar, son of Haga, stood alone at the foot of the table, before all this hostile array.

“Villain,” said Hugo (the name only imported serf), “thy name?”

“I have told thee, Ordgar, son of Haga.”

“Thou art a vassal of Aescendune?”

“I was.”

“And art:  my rights over thee cease not.”

“I do not acknowledge thee as my lord.”

“Thou mayst think better of it anon.  Now thou wilt please answer my questions.

“Scribe, take down his replies.”

“He will not fill much parchment.”

“We shall see.

“Where hast thou been hiding from thy lawful master?”

“I have not been hiding from my lawful lord.”

“Fool, dost thou bandy words with me?  Answer.”

“In the woods, then.”

“What woods?”

“The forests around thee.”

“Dost thou know the Dismal Swamp?”

“Well.”

“Hast thou been hiding there?”

“Yes.”

“How many of thy comrades are in hiding at that place?”

“I may not tell thee.”

“Behold.  Tormentor, remove the curtain.”

The curtain was drawn back, and revealed a strange assortment of those implements by which man, worse than the beast of the field, has sinned against his fellow.  There were the rack, the brazier with its red-hot pincers, the thumbscrew, and, in short, instruments—­happily unknown now—­in the greatest variety; all intended to wring the truth from crime, or worse, the self-condemning falsehood from the lips of helpless innocence {xiv}.

“Wilt thou answer?”

“I will not betray the innocent.”

“Seize him, tormentors.”

’Twas said and done, and after a short and furious struggle, the victim was laid on the rack.

“Turn.”

The tormentors, clad in leathern jerkins, hideous with masks to hide their brutal faces, turned the handles which worked pulleys and drew the victim’s limbs out of joint.

“Hold—­enough—­I will confess.”

“Release him.”

“What dost thou ask me?”

“How many are there in the Dismal Swamp?”

“Maybe a hundred.”

“Thou art trifling with me; I see we must put thee on the rack again.”

“Nay, thou wouldst force me to deceive thee; there cannot be many more.”