The empty bier seemed
licked in ruddy flames, and on the moist mould of the ceiling, each
little drop of water sparkled like a ruby.
"Look at him," repeated the jester. "Shrink not; they are only heating
the irons."
She crept to the edge of the trap, and peered down, fascinated. "Who
are those huge hairy men, with wild beasts' faces?" she asked.
"The torturers."
"Oh! what have they done to his hair--to all his long, pretty locks?
How strange he looks with his head shaven thus! And see! what is the
torturer to do with that glowing iron in his hand? Ugh!" and she fell
back, near swooning.
There was a sudden sizzle of burnt flesh and stenching smoke.
"Look," commanded the jester. "Look again."
"I dare not--nay, I cannot," and she flung herself away from the trap,
and lay at full length on the floor, with the moon and the furnace
light reflecting a mad swirl of color over her upturned, staring face.
For some moments she lay there, and above her stood the jester.
Neither spoke nor moved; they could only listen and listen to the
noises below them: the soft purring of the furnace-fire; the scuffle
of the workers' feet; the deadened clank of instruments; the faint
groans of the insensible youth; the binding, searing, ripping of
flesh; the crack and crunch of bones.
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