The shrill native trumpets sounded for the third time. The multitude was again hushed into a profound silence, and the executioners mounted a raised platform to apply the torture to Tuptim. For one moment it seemed as if the intense agony exceeded her power of endurance. She half turned her back upon the royal spectator at the window, her form became convulsed, and she tried to hide her face in her hands. But she immediately raised herself up as by a supreme effort, and her voice rang out, like a clear, deep-toned silver bell: "Chân my di phit; Khoon P'hra Bâlât ko my me phit; P'hra Buddh the Chow sap möt." She had hardly done speaking when she uttered an agonized cry, wild and piercing. It was peculiarly touching; the cry was that of a child, an infant falling from its mother's arms, and she fell forward insensible upon the two poles placed there to support her. The attendant physicians soon restored her to consciousness, and, after a short interval, the torture was again applied. Once more her voice rang out more musical still, for its quivering vibrations were full of the tenderest devotion, the most sublime heroism: "I have not sinned, nor has the priest my lord Bâlât sinned. The sacred Buddh[6] in heaven knows all." Every torture that would agonize, but not kill, was employed to wring a confession of guilt from the suffering Tuptim; but every torture, every pang, every agony, failed, utterly and completely failed, to bring forth anything but the childlike innocence of that incomparable pagan woman. The honor of the priest Bâlât seemed inexpressibly more precious to her than her own life, for the last words I heard from her were: "All the guilt was mine. I knew that I was a woman, but he did not." After this I neither heard nor saw anything more. I was completely exhausted and worn out, and had no strength left to endure further sight of this monstrous, this inhuman tragedy. Kind nature came to my relief, and I fainted.