y were stopped at the gate, but the guards knew the favorite's calash
and fair-haired pupil, and granted the latter the escort he asked for
his master. So they went forward; at first rapidly, then at a pace
easy for the horses. He told the coachman that Moor had alighted at
the second station, and would ride with His Majesty to Avila, where he
wished to find the carriage.

During the whole way, Ulrich thought little of himself, and all the
more of the master. If the pursuers had set out the morning after the
departure, and followed him instead of Don Fabrizio's party, Moor might
now be safe. He knew the names of the towns on the road to Valencia
and thought: "Now he may be here, now he may be there, now he must be
approaching Tarancon."

In the evening the calash reached the famous stronghold of Avila where,
according to the agreement, Ulrich was to leave the carriage and try to
make his own escape. The road led through the town, which was surrounded
by high walls and deep ditches. There was no possibility of going round
it, yet the drawbridges were already raised and the gates locked, so he
boldly called the warder and showed his passport.

An officer asked to see the artist. Ulrich said that he would follow
him; but the soldier was not satisfied, and ordered him to alight and
accompany him to the commandant.

Ulrich struck his spurs into the Andalusian's flanks and tried to go
back over the road by which he had come; but the horse had scarcely
begun to gallop, when a shot was fired, that stretched it on the ground.
The rider was dragged into the guard-house as a prisoner, and subjected
to a severe examination.

He was suspected of having murdered Moor and of having stolen his money,
for a purse filled with ducats was found on his person. While he was
being fettered, the pursuers reached Avila.

A new examination began, and now trial followed trial, torture, torture.

Even at Avila a sack was thrown over his head, and only opened, when
to keep him alive, he was fed with bread and water. Firmly bound in a
two-wheeled cart, drawn by mules, he was dragged over stock and stones
to Madrid.

Often, in the darkness, oppressed for breath, jolted, bruised, unable to
control his thoughts, or even his voice, he expected to perish; yet no
fainting-fit, no moment of utter unconsciousness pityingly came to his
relief, far less did any human heart have compassion on his suffering.

At last, at last he was unbound, and led,