rrayed in the flame-coloured robe of condemnation, was
ready for the final relaxation to the Arm Secular.

All the same, there was no slightest attempt at rescue, and in the early
hours of the morning the procession defiled into the city gates of
Perpignan, which opened freely at all hours to the familiars of the Holy
Office--the guard discreetly keeping their eyes on the ground. And so
the four, in the same order as at first, turned sharply into the Street
of the Money.

Serra, the huge, fist-faced Murcian, with the blood of Africa in him,
carefully undid the bonds, and hoped, with a Spaniard's innate
politeness, that they had not too greatly incommoded his guest. But the
"guest" answered not a word.

"Sulky, eh?" muttered the Murcian, equally ready to take offence. "Very
well, then, so much the worse!"

And he resolved to save the expense of the oil for Claire's funeral
pyre. He had meant to go out of his way to do the thing in style. But
with such a haughty dame--and she a Huguenot, one of the Accursed, no
more a Christian than any Jew--why should she give herself airs? The
thing was intolerable!

In this, Serra the Murcian, First Familiar of the Holy Inquisition,
followed the Golden Rule. He did literally as he would be done by. If it
had been his fate (and with a reliable witch for a mother it was no
far-away conjecture)--if it had been his own fortune to die at the
stake, he would have been grateful for the highest seat, the dryest
wood, the tallest pillar of flame, the happiest despatch with all modern
improvements. He resented it, therefore, when Claire Agnew showed
herself ungrateful for the like.

Well, he had done his duty. The worse for her. Like Pilate, he washed
his hands.

* * * * *

But such emotions as these he soon forgot. He had reason.

For above, in the accustomed bare room, with only the crucifix upon
whitewashed walls, the same three men were waiting anxiously for the
arrival of the prisoner.

The little band of familiars, having handed over the white mule to a
trusty subordinate, came up the stairs, and after giving the customary
knock, and being answered in the deep voice of Dom Teruel, they stood
blinking in the glare of the lights, their prisoner in the midst.

There was silence in the room--a great fateful silence. Then the soft
voice of Mariana the Jesuit broke the pause.

"And who, good Serra, may this be that you have brought us?"

"Why," sai