As they drove along the frozen moat Montalvo leant forward and began to chat about the race, expressing regret at having lost it, but using no angry or bitter words.  Could this be the man, wondered Lysbeth as she listened, whom she had seen deliberately attempt to overthrow his adversary in a foul heedless of dishonour or of who might be killed by the shock?  Could this be the man whose face just now had looked like the face of a devil?  Had these things happened, indeed, or was it not possible that her fancy, confused with the excitement and the speed at which they were travelling, had deceived her?  Certainly it seemed to have been overcome at last, for she could not remember the actual finish of the race, or how they got clear of the shouting crowd.

While she was still wondering thus, replying from time to time to Montalvo in monosyllables, the sledge in front of them turned the corner of one of the eastern bastions and came to a halt.  The place where it stopped was desolate and lonely, for the town being in a state of peace no guard was mounted on the wall, nor could any living soul be found upon the snowy waste that lay beyond the moat.  At first, indeed, Lysbeth was able to see nobody at all, for by now the sun had gone down and her eyes were not accustomed to the increasing light of the moon.  Presently, however, she caught sight of a knot of people standing on the ice in a recess or little bay of the moat, and half hidden by a fringe of dead reeds.

Montalvo saw also, and halted his horse within three paces of them.  The people were five in number, three Spanish soldiers and two women.  Lysbeth looked, and with difficulty stifled a cry of surprise and fear, for she knew the women.  The tall, dark person, with lowering eyes, was none other than the cap-seller and Spanish spy, Black Meg.  And she who crouched there upon the ice, her arms bound behind her, her grizzled locks, torn loose by some rough hand, trailing on the snow—­surely it was the woman who called herself the Mare, and who that very afternoon spoke to her, saying that she had known her father, and cursing the Spaniards and their Inquisition.  What were they doing here?  Instantly an answer leapt into her mind, for she remembered Black Meg’s words—­that there was a price upon this heretic’s head which before nightfall would be in her pocket.  And why was there a square hole cut in the ice immediately in front of the captive?  Could it be—­no, that was too horrible.

“Well, officer,” broke in Montalvo, addressing the sergeant in a quiet, wearied voice, “what is all this about?  Set out your case.”

“Excellency,” replied the man, “it is a very simple matter.  This creature here, so that woman is ready to take oath,” and he pointed to Black Meg, “is a notorious heretic who has already been condemned to death by the Holy Office, and whose husband, a learned man who painted pictures and studied the stars, was burnt on a charge of witchcraft and heresy, two years ago at Brussels.