an anything, and Serra the Murcian bared his teeth at
the thought. In his way he admired Claire Agnew. From various
hiding-places he had watched her many days ere his superiors judged that
all was ready. Now he would do his best for her. She should have the
highest, the middle pile, which is honour. Also, Serra the Murcian would
see to it that her bonfire contained no sea-grass or juniper rootlets,
which blazed indeed, but only scorched; neither any wet, sea-borne wood
from wrecked ships, which smoked and sulked, but would not burn. No--he,
Serra, would do the thing for her in gentlemanly fashion as became a
hidalgo of Murcia. The pretty heretic should have clear dry birch, one
year old, with olive roots aged several hundreds, all mixed with
shavings and pine cones, and a good top-dressing of oil like a salad to
finish all. And then (the Murcian showed his teeth and gums in a vast
semi-African grin, like a trench slashed out of a melon), well--she
would have reason to be proud of herself.

The pillar of clear flame would rise above Claire's head ten--nay,
twenty feet, wrapping her about like a garment. She would have no long
time to suffer. He was a kind-hearted man, this Serra the Murcian--that
is, to those to whom he had taken a fancy, as was the case with Claire.
If any torture was commanded, either the Lesser or the Greater Question,
he would make it light. It would never do to spoil her beauty against
the Great Day! What, after all, did they know, these two wise men in
black who only sat on their chairs and watched? It was the familiars who
made or marred in the House of Pain--indeed, Serra himself, for he could
destroy the others with a word. They had accepted bribes from
relatives--he never.

They mounted Claire on the notary's white mule, the sometime gift of the
Bishop of Elne. Ah, Serra chuckled, Don Jordy would ride it no more. It
would be his--Serra's. He would sell the beast and send the money to his
old mother who lived in a disused oven cut out of the rocks near the
Castle of the Moors, three leagues or so from Murcia city. She was an
affectionate old lady--he the best of sons. It was a shame they should
have miscalled her for a witch, when all she ever did was to provide
those who desired a blank in their families, or in those of their
neighbours, with a certain fine white powder.

Serra himself had been observed stirring a little in some soup at the
mansion where he was employed as cook. So, only for