“You won’t betray them,” sneered Ramiro. “Why, you young fool, you have already betrayed them fifty times over, and what is more, which you don’t seem to remember, you have betrayed yourself. Now look here. If you choose to sign that paper, or if you don’t choose, makes little difference to me, for, dear pupil, I would almost as soon have your evidence by word of mouth.” “I may be a fool,” said Adrian, turning sullen; “yes, I see now that I have been a fool to trust in you and your sham arts, but I am not fool enough to give evidence against my own people in any of your courts. What I have said I said never thinking that it would do them harm.” “Not caring whether it would do them harm or no,” corrected Ramiro, “as you had your own object to gain—the young lady whom, by the way, you were quite ready to doctor with a love medicine.” “Because love blinded me,” said Adrian loftily. Ramiro put his hand upon his shoulder and shook him slightly as he answered: “And has it not struck you, you vain puppy, that other things may blind you also—hot irons, for instance?” “What do you mean?” gasped Adrian. “I mean that the rack is a wonderful persuader. Oh! it makes the most silent talk and the most solemn sing. Now take your choice. Will you sign or will you go to the torture chamber?” “What right have you to question me?” asked Adrian, striving to build up his tottering courage with bold words. “Just this right—that I to whom you speak am the Captain and Governor of the Gevangenhuis in this town, an official who has certain powers.” Adrian turned pale but said nothing. “Our young friend has gone to sleep,” remarked Ramiro, reflectively. “Here you, Simon, twist his arm a little. No, not the right arm; he may want that to sign with, which will be awkward if it is out of joint: the other.” With an ugly grin the Butcher, taking his fingers from Adrian’s throat, gripped his captive’s left wrist, and very slowly and deliberately began to screw it round. Adrian groaned. “Painful, isn’t it?” said Ramiro. “Well, I have no more time to waste, break his arm.” Then Adrian gave in, for he was not fitted to bear torture; his imagination was too lively. “I will sign,” he whispered, the perspiration pouring from his pale face. “Are you quite sure you do it willingly?” queried his tormentor, adding, “another little half-turn, please, Simon; and you, Mistress Meg, if he begins to faint, just prick him in the thigh with your knife.” “Yes, yes,” groaned Adrian. “Very good. Now here is the pen. Sign.” So Adrian signed.