“Dear me!  Do you know I have heard that story before; yes, from the excellent Martin himself—­and, do you know, I don’t quite believe it.”

“I cannot help what you believe or do not believe.  You may remember that it was always my habit to speak the truth.”

“Quite so, but others may be less conscientious.  See here,” and drawing a paper from his doublet, he held it before her.  It was nothing less than the death-warrant of Dirk van Goorl, signed by the Inquisitor, duly authorised thereto.

Mechanically she read it and understood.

“You will observe,” he went on, “that the method of the criminal’s execution is left to the good wisdom of our well-beloved—­etc., in plain language, to me.  Now might I trouble you so far as to look out of this little window?  What do you see in front of you?  A kitchen?  Quite so; always a homely and pleasant sight in the eyes of an excellent housewife like yourself.  And—­do you mind bending forward a little?  What do you see up there?  A small barred window?  Well, let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that a hungry man, a man who grows hungrier and hungrier, sat behind that window watching the cooks at their work and seeing the meat carried into this kitchen, to come out an hour or two later as hot, steaming, savoury joints, while he wasted, wasted, wasted and starved, starved, starved.  Don’t you think, my dear lady, that this would be a very unpleasant experience for that man?”

“Are you a devil?” gasped Lysbeth, springing back.

“I have never regarded myself as such, but if you seek a definition, I should say that I am a hard-working, necessitous, and somewhat unfortunate gentleman who has been driven to rough methods in order to secure a comfortable old age.  I can assure you that I do not wish to starve anybody; I wish only to find Hendrik Brant’s treasure, and if your worthy husband won’t tell me where it is, why I must make him, that is all.  In six or eight days under my treatment I am convinced that he will become quite fluent on the subject, for there is nothing that should cause a fat burgher, accustomed to good living, to open his heart more than a total lack of the victuals which he can see and smell.  Did you ever hear the story of an ancient gentleman called Tantalus?  These old fables have a wonderful way of adapting themselves to the needs and circumstances of us moderns, haven’t they?”

Then Lysbeth’s pride broke down, and, in the abandonment of her despair, flinging herself upon her knees before this monster, she begged for her husband’s life, begged, in the name of God, yes, and even in the name of Montalvo’s son, Adrian.  So low had her misery brought her that she pleaded with the man by the son of shame whom she had borne to him.