"But I'll take care that you soon will be," muttered the gaoler, as he
fettered the prisoner afresh to the wall, "and I've orders to visit you
twice every day, so that you may not carry on any of your accursed
necromancy in the cell."
The next time his rations were brought him, it occurred to Raby that the
bread was strewn with a white powder. He had often complained of it not
being salted, but this did not look like salt, and as he was not hungry,
he did not attempt to eat it.
That evening when it was dark, he heard the well-remembered voice again
from the floor above.
"Poor Raby," it whispered, "are you there?"
And on his ready answer, came the caution: "Do not eat of the bread they
have brought you, it is poisoned."
The prisoner had suspected as much, but what was he to do? There was
nothing for it but to die of hunger, it seemed.
"Examine the cane I am pushing down" came the voice again, and a minute
or two later, appeared the cane whose hollow had already brought him so
much. This time it was filled with chocolate, and there was enough to
last him till the morning. But what was he to drink?
"Pour the water out of the pitcher, and through the cane I will fill it
with fresh," suggested the voice, and he hastened to obey.
The next morning the gaoler saw with dismay that his prisoner was still
alive, and apparently uninjured by his supper, yet it would have killed
most men. However, he had not eaten much of it to be sure, judging by
the little that had disappeared.
And when his back was turned, once more came the voice calling to Raby,
and this time it brought bad news indeed.
"The Emperor has gone," it said, "he sought for you, but could find no
trace of you. They told him you had been released, so he left in that
belief."
"Only give me writing materials," pleaded Raby earnestly.
"I cannot, as soon as you are convicted of having them in the cell, you
are to be beheaded immediately. Besides, no one knows where the Emperor
is; they say he is in Turkey."
The threat was for Raby but one more spur to action, and he was defiant,
and pleaded no longer with his protectress. He had hidden a morsel of
paper in his wretched bed, and on this he wrote with a straw for pen,
with a drop of his own blood for ink, for he had no other. When it was
dry, he rolled it up and concealed it in a straw-stalk.
Then he waited till the next time his cell was being swept out by a
heyduke, who was the one who had formerly brought him the pitcher with
the false bottom. Raby gave his missive to him, and whispered, "This is
worth a hundred ducats." The man understood, and took the straw.
That was Mathias Raby's last attempt at freedom.
From that day forward, all sorts of threats were used to make him sign
Petray's paper, and sometimes they kept him so long under examination in
the court, that he fainted from sheer exhaustion.
One night the door opened, and Janosics appeared with three men, one of
whom bore a brazier of burning coals, another a pair of pincers, and in
the third he recognised the public executioner of Pesth.
"I'll soon make the stubborn fellow yield," cried the castellan
brutally; "let's see if this won't bend him! Now, gentlemen, do your
duty; strip him, and torture him till he confesses his crimes."
Raby was dumb with horror. They tore his clothes from him, but the sight
of the prisoner's haggard face and emaciated figure smote the heart even
of the executioner with a sudden pity.
"My good Janosics," he said, "I won't torment the poor wretch, not if
you give me the whole Assembly House for doing such work."
And with that, he put on his coat, seized the water-pitcher which stood
by Raby's bed, and extinguished the coals, so that the cell was plunged
in sudden darkness. Then the whole crew withdrew quarrelling among
themselves.
When Raby brought the occurrence to the notice of the court the
following day, they only laughed, and said he had been dreaming!