"
"In the woods, then."
"What woods?"
"The forests around thee."
"Dost thou know the Dismal Swamp?"
"Well."
"Hast thou been hiding there?"
"Yes."
"How many of thy comrades are in hiding at that place?"
"I may not tell thee."
"Behold. Tormentor, remove the curtain."
The curtain was drawn back, and revealed a strange assortment of
those implements by which man, worse than the beast of the field,
has sinned against his fellow. There were the rack, the brazier
with its red-hot pincers, the thumbscrew, and, in short,
instruments--happily unknown now--in the greatest variety; all
intended to wring the truth from crime, or worse, the self-condemning
falsehood from the lips of helpless innocence {xiv}.
"Wilt thou answer?"
"I will not betray the innocent."
"Seize him, tormentors."
'Twas said and done, and after a short and furious struggle, the
victim was laid on the rack.
"Turn."
The tormentors, clad in leathern jerkins, hideous with masks to
hide their brutal faces, turned the handles which worked pulleys
and drew the victim's limbs out of joint.
"Hold--enough--I will confess."
"Release him."
"What dost thou ask me?"
"How many are there in the Dismal Swamp?"
"Maybe a hundred."
"Thou art trifling with me; I see we must put thee on the rack
again.
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