By chill, dark passages of stone, through which our steps reverberated,
they brought me to a pillared, vaulted underground chamber, lighted by
torches in iron brackets on the walls.
On a dais stood an oaken writing-table bearing two massive wax tapers and a
Crucifix. At this table sat a portly, swarthy-visaged man in the black
robes of the order of St. Dominic. Immediately below and flanking him on
either hand sat two mute cowled figures to do the office of amanuenses.
Away on the right, where the shadows were but faintly penetrated by the
rays of the torches, stood an engine of wood somewhat of the size and
appearance of the framework of a couch, but with stout straps of leather to
pinion the patient, and enormous wooden screws upon which the frame could
be made to lengthen or contract. From the ceiling grey ropes dangled from
pulleys, like the tentacles of some dread monster of cruelty.
One glance into that gloomy part of the chamber was enough for me.
Repressing a shudder, I faced the inquisitor, and thereafter kept my eyes
upon him to avoid the sight of those other horrors. And he was horror
enough for any man in my circumstances to envisage.
He was very fat, with a shaven, swarthy face and the dewlap of an ox. In
that round fleshliness his eyes were sunken like two black buttons,
malicious through their very want of expression.
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