n the
jailer reopened the door and they were marched out, down the stone
stairs, then sharply to the right and along a narrow corridor.
A lamp flickered at the farther end, over a small door studded with
iron nails; and before this door another small company of soldiers
was drawn up in two rows of six, with their backs to either wall of
the corridor. Between them the prisoners were forced to defile,
still cringing and weeping, as the small door opened and they passed
into the chamber beyond.

And now for the first time Tristram felt thoroughly alarmed.
The chamber was narrow and lofty, and without any window that he
could perceive. But just now it was full of a red light that poured
out through the eyes of a charcoal brazier in the far corner.
Two grim figures in leathern aprons stood over this brazier, with the
glare on their brutal faces--the one puffing with a pair of bellows
till the room was filled with suffocating vapours, the other diving a
handful of irons into the glowing centre, wherein five or six already
glowed at a red heat.

Beside them, and watching these operations with a business-like air,
stood a gentleman in a handsome suit and plumed hat.

"_Premiree fournee!_" announced the sergeant in a loud tone,
marshalling the prisoners along the wall. Four or five of them had
by this time broken out into loud sobs and cries for mercy.
The gentleman scarcely turned his head, but continued to watch the
heating of the irons. At length, satisfied that all was ready, he
turned and walked in front of the line, examining each prisoner
attentively with an absolutely impassive face.

Coming to Tristram--who by this time was committing his fate to
Heaven--he paused for a moment, and beckoning the sergeant put a
question or two. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and spread out
both palms apologetically. Then the gentleman addressed a sentence
to Tristram, and receiving no answer but a shake of the head, cast
about for a moment and began again in English.

"You are Englishman?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not French deserter?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what the devil you do here?"

This was a question that seemed to require a deal of answering.
While Tristram was perpending how best to begin, his interrogator
spoke again:

"Speak out. I am M. de Lambertie, Grand Provost of Flanders.
You had better speak me the truth."

Our hero began a recital of his woes, condensing as well as he could.
After a minute, M. de