THE public torturer hurried home in an irritable frame of mind. The day
had been for him one long round of annoyances. When he commenced his
duties that morning, already exasperated by the thought that if the
drought continued the produce of his tiny patch of ground would be
completely ruined, he was aggrieved to find that far more than his fair
share of a recently arrived batch of heretics had been allotted to him.
During the midday break for refreshments his dreamy assistant had
allowed the furnace to go out, bringing upon the torturer's own head a
severe censure for the consequent delay. In the afternoon, glancing
occasionally through the narrow window, he was mortified to see that the
promising rain-clouds, which might yet have saved his cabbages, were
dispersing; and then, to crown all, just as he was finishing for the day
he had caught hold of a pair of pincers a trifle too near the white-hot
end and seared his hand.
As he approached the cottage which was enshrined in his heart by a
thousand sacred associations as home, the torturer strove to rise
superior to his worries. He whistled bravely as he crossed the threshold
and caressed his wife with his usual tenderness. Intuitively she divined
the bitterness of the mood which lay beneath the torturer's seeming
cheerfulness, but she stifled her curiosity like the wise little woman
she was and hastened to lay his supper before him. Through the progress
of the meal--prepared by her in the way the torturer loved so well--she
diverted him with her lively prattle. And at length, when she trod on
the dog and caused it to give out a long-drawn howl, she made such a
neat allusion to the Chamber and heretics that the torturer laughed till
the tears streamed down his cheeks.
After the table was cleared the torturer's little blue-eyed girl came
toddling up to him for her usual half-hour's cuddle. It made a beautiful
picture--the little mite with her father's merry eyes and her mother's
rosebud mouth, sitting on the torturer's knee, her golden hair mingling
with his beard. And how her silvery laugh brightened the place as she
played her favourite game of stretching her rag doll on a toy model of a
rack.
The sound of rain outside brought the torturer and his wife to the door.
As they stood side by side watching the downpour the last vestige of the
torturer's ill-humour passed away. This rain would mean a record year
for his cabbages, and would do wonders for his beans, which were already
a long way more forward than those of the executioner.
He realised now that he had allowed the mishaps of the day to worry him
unduly. After all, his hand had suffered little more than a scorch and
no longer pained him, and, although the censure he had received in the
Chamber and the possible consequences had been very disquieting, yet he
was now able to assure himself and his wife that if henceforth he kept
his assistant from wool-gathering all would be well.
Suddenly he fell back trembling from the threshold, his face blanched
with terror. A large rain-drop had splashed on his forehead, reminding
him abruptly that before coming home that evening he had neglected to
fill the water-dripping apparatus, which might be required at dawn for
the more obstinate of the heretics.
* * * * *