stuck a dagger into him--no great matter if he had stuck it
through him, or cloven him to the chine with his own Red Axe!"

CHAPTER XL

THE TRIAL OF THE WITCH

At this point came my master back, looking exceedingly disconsolate. A
starveling, furtive-eyed monk accompanied him.

"The Bishop," he said, "is gone forth of his house. He is in attendance
at the trial of a woman for witchcraft, one whom some of the common city
folk hold to be a saint. But the young Duke and others swear that she is
a witch, and hath murdered the Duke Casimir. Haste thee with the horses,
sirrah, and attend me to the Hall of Justice. I have sent a messenger
forward with my credentials to the Bishop Peter."

So to the corner of the yard I went and rubbed down the horses with a
wisp of straw which Peter of the Pigs brought me, and which smelled of
his charges too. Then, with another piece of money in his hand, I sent
him out to the nearest corn-chandler's to buy some corn for our beasts,
the which I gave them, and stood by them till I saw them eat it too. For
in such a poverty-stricken place, and with a gentleman of the capacity of
Master Peter of the Pigs, one that is in any way fond of his horses
cannot be too careful.

This done, I announced myself to my master as ready to accompany him.

Then, through the streets of Thorn, all strangely empty, we took our
way. Women were leaning out of windows; every head turned castleward up
the street.

They hardly deigned a glance at my master or at myself, but continued to
gaze. And as each passenger came down the street from the direction of
the Wolfsberg they cried questions at him, so that he ran the gantlet of
a dropping fire of shrill queries.

"What are they doing to the sweet saint up yonder?"

"Hath she been put to the Question?"

"Who could be executioner in such a case? A man would be sent to
hell-fire for daring to lay hand on her."

The popular sympathies ran clearly with the accused, which is not, as our
old Hanne had reason to remember, the rule in trials for witchcraft.

Soon we were passing the gate of the Red Tower. It was barred and closed.
The windows of my father's house looked barrenly down, like the eye-holes
of skulls. I saw the window from which I used to gaze wistfully down upon
the children, who would not play with me, but spat upon the tower when
they saw me looking at their play and pipings upon the streets.

There above was the window of my father's gar