ys of
Providence, Cousin Wingfield. You have hunted me across the world, and
several times we have met, always to your sorrow. I thought I had you
in the slave ship, I thought that the sharks had you in the water, but
somehow you escaped me whom you came to hunt. When I knew it I grieved,
but now I grieve no more, for I see that you were reserved for this
moment. Cousin Wingfield, it shall go hard if you escape me this time,
and yet I think that we shall spend some days together before we part.
Now I will be courteous with you. You may have a choice of evils. How
shall we begin? The resources at my command are not all that we could
wish, alas! the Holy Office is not yet here with its unholy armoury, but
still I have done my best. These fellows do not understand their art:
hot coals are their only inspiration. I, you see, have several,' and he
pointed to various instruments of torture. 'Which will you select?'

I made no answer, for I had determined that I would speak no word and
utter no cry, do what they might with me.

'Let me think, let me think,' went on de Garcia, smoothing his beard.
'Ah, I have it. Here, slaves.'

Now I will not renew my own agonies, or awake the horror of any who may
chance to read what I have written by describing what befell me after
this. Suffice it to say that for two hours and more this devil, helped
in his task by the Tlascalans, worked his wicked will upon me. One by
one torments were administered to me with a skill and ingenuity that
cannot often have been surpassed, and when at times I fainted I was
recovered by cold water being dashed upon me and spirits poured down
my throat. And yet, I say it with some pride, during those two dreadful
hours I uttered no groan however great my sufferings, and spoke no word
good or bad.

Nor was it only bodily pain that I must bear, for all this while my
enemy mocked me with bitter words, which tormented my soul as his
instruments and hot coals tormented my body. At length he paused
exhausted, and cursed me for an obstinate pig of an Englishman, and at
that moment Cortes entered the shambles and with him Marina.

'How goes it?' he said lightly, though his face turned pale at the sight
of horror.

'The cacique of Tacuba has confessed that gold is buried in his garden,
the other two have said nothing, general,' the clerk answered, glancing
down his paper.

'Brave men, indeed!' I heard Cortes mutter to himself; then said aloud,
'Let the cacique b