Lysbeth heard and understood. If she would save this woman’s life she must expose herself to the attentions of the Spaniard, which she desired least of anything in the world. More, speaking upon her oath in the presence of God, she must utter a dreadful lie, she who as yet had never lied. For thirty seconds or more she thought, staring round her with anguished eyes, while the scene they fell on sank into her soul in such fashion that never till her death’s day did she forget its aspect. The Mare spoke no more, she only knelt searching her face with a stern and wondering glance. A little to the right stood Black Meg, glaring at her sullenly, for the blood-money was in danger. Behind the prisoner were two of the soldiers, one patting his hand to his face to hide a yawn, while the other beat his breast to warm himself. The third soldier, who was placed somewhat in front, stirred the surface of the hole with the shaft of his halbert to break up the thin film of ice which was forming over it, while Montalvo himself, still leaning sideways and forwards, watched her eyes with an amused and cynical expression. And over all, over the desolate snows and gabled roofs of the town behind; over the smooth blue ice, the martyr and the murderers; over the gay sledge and the fur-wrapped girl who sat within it, fell the calm light of the moon through a silence broken only by the beating of her heart, and now and again by the sigh of a frost-wind breathing among the rushes. “Well, Señora,” asked Montalvo, “if you have sufficiently reflected shall I administer the oath in the form provided?” “Administer it,” she said hoarsely. So, descending from the sledge, he stood in front of Lysbeth, and, lifting his cap, repeated the oath to her, an oath strong enough to blast her soul if she swore to it with false intent. “In the name of God the Son and of His Blessed Mother, you swear?” he asked. “I swear,” she answered. “Good, Señora. Now listen to me. Did you meet that woman this afternoon?” “Yes, I met her on the ice.” “And did she in your hearing utter curses upon the Government and the Holy Church, and call upon you to assist in driving the Spaniards from the land, as this spy, whom I believe is called Black Meg, has borne witness?” “No,” said Lysbeth. “I am afraid that is not quite enough, Señora; I may have misquoted the exact words. Did the woman say anything of the sort?” For one second Lysbeth hesitated. Then she caught sight of the victim’s watching, speculative eyes, and remembered that this crazed and broken creature once had been a child whom her father had kissed and played with, and that the crime of which she was accused was that she had escaped from death at the stake. “The water is cold to die in!” the Mare said, in a meditative voice, as though she were thinking aloud. “Then why did you run away from the warm fire, heretic witch?” jeered Black Meg. Now Lysbeth hesitated no longer, but again answered in a monosyllable, “No.”