But an hour passed, and two hours, and still I lay staring up at the stars, listening to the hogs as they rubbed flanks and chose and fought for their lairs:  still I lay staring, with teeth clenched and the file idle in my hand.

I had challenged, and I had sworn.  “Bethink you now what pains you can put upon me. . . .”  These tortures were not of her devising; but I would hold her to them.  I was her hostage, and, though it killed me, I would hold her to the last inch of her bond.  As a Catholic, she must believe in hell.  I would carry my wrong even to hell then, and meet her there with it and master her.

I was mad.  After hours of such a crucifixion a man must needs be mad. . . .  “Prosper, lad, your ideas are naught and your ambitions earth:  but you have a streak of damned obstinacy which makes me not altogether hopeless of you!” These had been Nat’s words, a month ago; and Nat lay in his grave yonder. . . .  The cramp in my legs, the fiery pain ringing my neck, met and ran over me in waves of total anguish.  At the point where my will failed me to hold out, the power failed me (I thank Heaven) to lift a hand.  Yet the will struggled feebly; struggled on to the verge over which all sensation dropped plumb, as into a pit.

I unclosed my eyes upon the grey dawn; but upon what dawn I knew not, whether of earth or purgatory or hell itself.  They saw it swimming in a vague light:  but my ears, from a sound as of rushing waters, awoke to a silence on which a small footfall broke, a few yards away.  Marc’antonio must have unpenned the hogs; for the sty was empty.  And the hogs in their rush must have thrown down the hurdles protecting me; for these lay collapsed, the one at my side, the other across me.

The light footfall drew close and halted.  I looked up into the face of the Princess.

She came, picking her way across the mire; and with caution, as if she feared to be overheard.  Clearly she had expected to find the sty empty, for even to my dazed senses her dismay was evident as she caught sight of me beneath the hurdle.

“You have not gone!  Oh, why have you not gone?”

She was on her knees beside me in the filth.  I heard her calling to Marc’antonio, and presently Marc’antonio came, obedient as ever, yet protesting.

“He has not gone!” She moved her hands with a wringing gesture.

I tried to speak, but for answer could only spread my hand, which still grasped the file:  and for days after it kept a blue weal bitten across the palm.

I heard Marc’antonio’s voice protesting as she took the file and sawed with it frantically across my neck-chain.

“But he must escape and hide, at least.”

“He cannot, Princess.  The torture has worn him out.”

“It were better he died, then.  For I must go.”

“It were better he died, Princess:  but his youth is tough.  And that you must go is above all things necessary.  The Prince would kill me. . . .”