“I don’t like the look of him,” grumbled the Professor, gnawing at his short nails.  “I have heard about this mad brute; he is capable of anything.”

“Then take the whole guard with you; one naked wretch can’t do much against eight armed men.  And, listen; take the young gentleman also, and let him see what goes on; the experience may modify his views, but don’t touch him without telling me.  I have reports to write, and shall stop here.”

“I don’t like the look of him,” repeated the Professor.  “I say that he makes me feel cold down the back—­he has the evil eye; I’d rather begin with the young one.”

“Begone and do what I tell you,” said Ramiro, glaring at him fiercely.  “Guard, attend upon the executioner Baptiste.”

“Bring them along,” grumbled the Professor.

“No need for violence, worthy sir,” muttered Martin; “show the way and we follow,” and stooping down he lifted Foy from his chair.

Then the procession started.  First went Baptiste and four soldiers, next came Martin bearing Foy, and after them four more soldiers.  They passed out of the courtroom into the passage beneath the archway.  Martin, shuffling along slowly, glanced down it and saw that on the wall, among some other weapons, hung his own sword, Silence.  The big doors were locked and barred, but at the wicket by the side of them stood a sentry, whose office it was to let people in and out upon their lawful business.  Making pretence to shift Foy in his arms, Martin scanned this wicket as narrowly as time would allow, and observed that it seemed to be secured by means of iron bolts at the top and the bottom, but that it was not locked, since the socket into which the tongue went was empty.  Doubtless, while he was on guard there, the porter did not think it necessary to go to the pains of using the great key that hung at his girdle.

The sergeant in charge of the victims opened a low and massive door, which was almost exactly opposite to that of the court-room, by shooting back a bolt and pushing it ajar.  Evidently the place beyond at some time or other had been used as a prison, which accounted for the bolt on the outside.  A few seconds later and they were locked into the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis, which was nothing more than a good-sized vault like that of a cellar, lit with lamps, for no light of day was suffered to enter here, and by a horrid little fire that flickered on the floor.  The furnitures of the place may be guessed at; those that are curious about such things can satisfy themselves by examining the mediaeval prisons at The Hague and elsewhere.  Let us pass them over as unfit even for description, although these terrors, of which we scarcely like to speak to-day, were very familiar to the sight of our ancestors of but three centuries ago.

Martin sat Foy down upon some terrible engine that roughly resembled a chair, and once more let his blue eyes wander about him.  Amongst the various implements was one leaning against the wall, not very far from the door, which excited his especial interest.  It was made for a dreadful purpose, but Martin reflected only that it seemed to be a stout bar of iron exactly suited to the breaking of anybody’s head.