"Number one!" shouted Ogier. "Make him walk the rafter. Drive him forward with your pikes if he shrinks back." One of the ruffians of the band, his face as parchment, speechless in the stupefaction of his fear, was made to mount the beam, and then the peasants round shouted, drove at him with their knives and pruning-hooks, and made him pass through the window. There were three men seated on the end of the beam, which rested on a bench in the chamber. The moment the unhappy wretch had disappeared through the window, Ogier began to hew with his pick into the floor. "Forward! He is hanging back! He clings to the wall! Coward! He is endeavouring to scramble in again!" was yelled by the peasants, crowding round the window to watch the man on the charred and glowing beam end. "Drive him off with a pike! Make him dance on the embers!" called one within, and a reaping-hook, bound to a pole, was thrust forth. A scream, horrible in its agony, in its intensity; and those seated on the beam felt there was no longer a counterpoise. Chip, chip, went Ogier. Presently he looked up. He had cut a Greek cross in the chalk floor. "Number two!" he ordered. Then the wretch who was seized burst from his captors, rushed up to Ogier, threw himself on his knees, and implored to be spared. He would do anything. He would forswear the English. He would never plunder again. Old Del' Peyra looked at him coldly. "Did you ever spare one who fell into your hands? Did you spare Rossignol? Make him walk the beam." The shrieking wretch was lifted by strong arms on to the rafter; he refused to stand, he threw himself on his knees, he struggled, bit, prayed, sobbed--all the manhood was gone out of him. "Thrust him through the window," said one. "If he will not walk the beam he shall cling to it." The brigand's efforts were in vain. He was driven through the opening. In his frantic efforts to save himself he gripped the rafter, hanging from it, his legs swinging in space. "Cut off his fingers," said one. Then the man, to escape a blow from an axe, ran his hands along, put them on glowing red charcoal, and dropped. Chip, chip! went Ogier. He had cut a second cross. "Number three!" he said. The man whose turn came thrust aside those who held him, leaped on the beam, and walked deliberately through the window and bounded into the darkness. Chip, chip! went Ogier. He worked on till he had incised a third cross in the floor. Thus one by one was sent to his death out of the chamber reeking with wood-smoke, illumined by the puffs of flame from the still burning buildings that adjoined. Ten crosses had been cut in the floor. "Number eleven!" said Ogier; and at that same moment his son Jean entered at the head of those who had ignited and sent down the cataract of fire that had consumed the nest. "What are you doing, father?" "Sending them before their Judge," answered Ogier. "See these ten crosses. There are ten have been dismissed."