The sergeant in charge of the victims opened a low and massive door, which was almost exactly opposite to that of the court-room, by shooting back a bolt and pushing it ajar. Evidently the place beyond at some time or other had been used as a prison, which accounted for the bolt on the outside. A few seconds later and they were locked into the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis, which was nothing more than a good-sized vault like that of a cellar, lit with lamps, for no light of day was suffered to enter here, and by a horrid little fire that flickered on the floor. The furnitures of the place may be guessed at; those that are curious about such things can satisfy themselves by examining the mediaeval prisons at The Hague and elsewhere. Let us pass them over as unfit even for description, although these terrors, of which we scarcely like to speak to-day, were very familiar to the sight of our ancestors of but three centuries ago. Martin sat Foy down upon some terrible engine that roughly resembled a chair, and once more let his blue eyes wander about him. Amongst the various implements was one leaning against the wall, not very far from the door, which excited his especial interest. It was made for a dreadful purpose, but Martin reflected only that it seemed to be a stout bar of iron exactly suited to the breaking of anybody’s head. “Come,” sneered the Professor, “undress that big gentleman while I make ready his little bed.” So the soldiers stripped Martin, nor did they assault him with sneers and insults, for they remembered the man’s deeds of yesterday, and admired his strength and endurance, and the huge, muscular frame beneath their hands. “Now he is ready if you are,” said the sergeant. The Professor rubbed his hands. “Come on, my little man,” he said. Then Martin’s nerve gave way, and he began to shiver and to shake. “Oho!” laughed the Professor, “even in this stuffy place he is cold without his clothes; well we must warm him—we must warm him.” “Who would have thought that a big fellow, who can fight well, too, was such a coward at heart,” said the sergeant of the guard to his companions. “After all, he will give no more play than a Rhine salmon.” Martin heard the words, and was seized with such an intense access of fear that he burst into a sweat all over his body. “I can’t bear it,” he said, covering his eyes—which, however, he did not shut—with his fingers. “The rack was always my nightmare, and now I see why. I’ll tell all I know.” “Oh! Martin, Martin,” broke out Foy in a kind of wail, “I was doing my best to keep my own courage; I never dreamt that you would turn coward.” “Every well has a bottom, master,” whined Martin, “and mine is the rack. Forgive me, but I can’t abide the sight of it.”