“A prisoner who will soon be free,” murmured the voice again through the blackness, for by now night had fallen, and no light came from the hole above. Then Foy fell into sleep or stupor, and there was silence for a long while, until they heard the bolts and bars of the door of the dungeon creaking, and the glint of a lantern appeared floating on the gloom. Several men tramped down the narrow gangway, and one of them, unlocking their cage, entered, filled the jug of water from a leathern jack, and threw down some loaves of black bread and pieces of stockfish, as food is thrown to dogs. Having examined the pair of them he grunted and went away, little knowing how near he had been to death, for the heart of Martin was mad. But he let him go. Then the door of the next cell was opened, and a man said, “Come out. It is time.” “It is time and I am ready,” answered the thin voice. “Good-bye, friends, God be with you.” “Good-bye, lady,” answered Martin; “may you soon be with God.” Then he added, by an afterthought, “What is your name? I should like to know.” “Mary,” she replied, and began to sing a hymn, and so, still singing the hymn, she passed away to her death. They never saw her face, they never learned who she might be, this poor girl who was but an item among the countless victims of perhaps the most hideous tyranny that the world has ever known—one of Alva’s slaughtered sixty thousand. But many years afterwards, when Foy was a rich man in a freer land, he built a church and named it Mary’s kirk. The long night wore away in silence, broken only by the groans and prayers of prisoners in dens upon the same floor, or with the solemn rhythm of hymns sung by those above, till at length the light, creeping through the dungeon lattices, told them that it was morning. At its first ray Martin awoke much refreshed, for even there his health and weariness had brought sleep to him. Foy also awoke, stiff and sore, but in his right mind and very hungry. Then Martin found the loaves and the stockfish, and they filled themselves, washing down the meal with water, after which he dressed Foy’s wounds, making a poultice for them out of the crumb of the bread, and doctored his own bruises as best he could. It must have been ten o’clock or later when again the doors were opened, and men appeared who commanded that they should follow them. “One of us can’t walk,” said Martin; “still, perhaps I can manage,” and, lifting Foy in his arms as though he had been a baby, he passed with the jailers out of the den, down the stair, and into the court-room. Here, seated behind a table, they found Ramiro and the little, squeaky-voiced, red-faced Inquisitor. “Heaven above us!” said the Inquisitor, “what a great hairy ruffian; it makes me feel nervous to be in the same place with him. I beg you, Governor Ramiro, instruct your soldiers to be watching and to stab him at the first movement.” “Have no fear, noble sir,” answered Ramiro, “the villain is quite unarmed.”