“...  O Christ, were extended on the Cross—­” began the tortured man dreamily.  “Ah-h-h!"....

It was a scream, whispered rather than shrieked, that was torn from him by the sharpness of the agony.  His body had lifted from the floor without will of his own, twisting a little; and what seemed as strings of fiery pain had shot upwards from his feet and downwards from his wrists as the roller was suddenly jerked again.  He hung there perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, conscious only of the blinding pain—­questions, questioners, roof and faces all gone and drowned again in a whirling tumult of darkness and red streaks.  The sweat poured again suddenly from his whole body....  Then again he sank relaxed upon the floor, and the pulses beat in his head, and he thought that Marjorie and her mother and his own father were all looking at him....

He heard presently the same voice talking: 

“—­and answer the questions that are put to you....  Now then, we will begin the others, if it please you better....  In what month was it that you first became privy to the plot against her Grace?”

“Wait!” whispered the priest.  “Wait, and I will answer that.” (He understood that there was a trap here.  The question had been framed differently last time.  But his mind was all a-whirl; and he feared he might answer wrongly if he could not collect himself.  He still wondered why so many friends of his were in the room—­even Father Campion....)

He drew a breath again presently, and tried to speak; but his voice broke like a shattered trumpet, and he could not command it....  He must whisper.

“It was in August, I think....  I think it was August, two years ago."...

“August ... you mean May or April.”

“No; it was August....  At least, all that I know of the plot was when ... when—­” (His thoughts became confused again; it was like strings of wool, he thought, twisted violently together; a strand snapped now and again.  He made a violent effort and caught an end as it was slipping away.) “It was in August, I think; the day that Mr. Babington fled, that he wrote to me; and sent me—­” (He paused:  he became aware that here, too, lurked a trap if he were to say he had seen Mary; he would surely be asked what he had seen her for, and his priesthood might be so proved against him....  He could not remember whether that had been proved; and so ... would Father Campion advise him perhaps whether....)

The voice jarred again; and startled him into a flash of coherence.  He thought he saw a way out.

“Well?” snapped the voice.  “Sent you?...  Sent you whither?”

“Sent me to Chartley; where I saw her Grace ... her Grace of the Scots; and ...  ‘As Thy arms, O Christ....’”

“Now then; now then—!  So your saw her Grace?  And what was that for?”

“I saw her Grace ... and ... and told her what Mr. Babington had told me.”

“What was that, then?”