courtyard, and at the back
of it rose the prison. In this yard were waiting the new governor of the
jail, Ramiro, and with him a little red-faced, pig-eyed man dressed in
a rusty doublet. He was the Inquisitor of the district, especially
empowered as delegate of the Blood Council and under various edicts and
laws to try and to butcher heretics.

The officer in command of the troops advanced to make his report.

"What is all that noise?" asked the Inquisitor in a frightened, squeaky
voice. "Is this city also in rebellion?"

"And where are the rest of you?" said Ramiro, scanning the thin files.

"Sir," answered the officer saluting, "the rest of us are dead. Some
were killed by this red rogue and his companion, and the mob have the
others."

Then Ramiro began to curse and to swear, as well he might, for he knew
that when this story reached headquarters, his credit with Alva and the
Blood Council would be gone.

"Coward!" he yelled, shaking his fist in the face of the officer.
"Coward to lose a score or more of men in taking a brace of heretics."

"Don't blame me, sir," answered the man sullenly, for the word stirred
his bile, "blame the mob and this red devil's steel, which went through
us as though we were wet clay," and he handed him the sword Silence.

"It fits the man," muttered Montalvo, "for few else could wield such a
blade. Go hang it in the doorway, it may be wanted in evidence," but to
himself he thought, "Bad luck again, the luck that follows me whenever I
pit myself against Lysbeth van Hout." Then he gave an order, and the two
prisoners were taken away up some narrow stairs.

At the top of the first flight was a solid door through which they
passed, to find themselves in a large and darksome place. Down the
centre of this place ran a passage. On either side of the passage, dimly
lighted by high iron-barred windows, were cages built of massive oaken
bars, and measuring each of them eight or ten feet square, very dens
such as might have served for wild beasts, but filled with human beings
charged with offences against the doctrines of the Church. Those who
chance to have seen the prison of the Inquisition at The Hague as it
still stands to-day, will know what they were like.

Into one of these dreadful holes they were thrust, Foy, wounded as he
was, being thrown roughly upon a heap of dirty straw in the corner.
Then, having bolted and locked the door of their den, the soldiers left
them.

As soon a