“For which mercy may Heaven be praised!” I burst out.

He scowled at me; then he laughed evilly.

“My men have returned—­all save three.  Captain Lucagnolo with two of his followers, has undertaken to go beyond the area I appointed for the search, and to proceed to the village of Cattolica.  While he is pursuing his inquiries there, I have resolved to pursue my own here.  I now call upon you, Boccadoro, to tell us what you know of Madonna Paola’s whereabouts.”

“I know nothing,” I answered stoutly.  “I am prepared to take oath that I know nothing of her whereabouts.”

“Tell me, then, at least,” said he, “where you bestowed her.”

I shook my head, pressing my lips tight.

“Do you think that I would tell you if I had the knowledge?” was the scornful question with which I answered him.  “You may pursue your inquiries as you will and where you will, but I pray God they may all prove as futile as must those that you would pursue here and upon my own person.”

This was how I fenced with him, this was the manner in which I followed Mariani’s sound advice that I should temporise!  Oh!  I know that my words were the words of a fool, yet no fear that Ramiro would inspire me could have restrained them.

There was a murmur at the table, and his fellows turned their eyes on Ramiro to see how he would receive this bearding.  He smiled quietly, and raising his hand he made a sign to the executioners.

Rude hands seized me from behind, and the doublet was torn from my back by fingers that never paused to untruss my points.

They turned me about, and hurried me along until I stood under the pulleys of the torture, and one of the men held me securely whilst the other passed the cords about my wrists.  Then both the executioners stepped back, to be ready to hoist me at the Governor’s signal.

He delayed it, much as an epicure delays the consumption of a delectable morsel, heightening by suspense the keen desire of his palate.  He watched me closely, and had my lips quivered or my eyelids fluttered, he would have hailed with joy such signs of weakness.  But I take pride in truthfully writing that I stood bold and impassively before him, and if I was pale I thank Heaven that pallor was the habit of my countenance, so that from that he could gather no satisfaction.  And standing there, I gave him back look for look, and waited.

“For the last time, Boccadoro,” he said slowly, attempting by words to shake a demeanour that was proof against the impending facts of the cord, “I ask you to remember what must be the consequences of this stubbornness.  If not at the first hoist, why then at the second or the third, the torture will compel you to disclose what you may know.  Would you not be better advised to speak at once, while your limbs are soundly planted in their sockets, rather than let yourself be maimed, perhaps for life, ere you will do so?”