By this time the vast amphitheatre, that was capable of seating twenty-four thousand people, if Syracuse had only had twenty-four thousand people to offer it, had swallowed up the eager crowds, and the arena lay bare, save for the little wooden platform with its scarlet stain. There was a flourish of royal music. Cries of “The King! The King!” ran from lip to lip; many soldiers marched across the arena from the royal gardens, and in their midst, on an open litter, was carried the likeness of the King, attended by a brilliant cloud of courtiers. As it seemed to all the thousand watching eyes, the King descended from his litter and mounted, amid salutations, to the enclosure on the amphitheatre where his throne was set up, and seating himself upon the throne gazed steadfastly at the arena, where now assistant executioners were piling the faggots close about the platform.

Not far from the King the court ladies babbled.

“Do they need so much wood to burn one little woman?” Messalinda asked, curiously, watching the executioners at their task.

Faustina chuckled maliciously.

“If she be a witch, it will take a deal of fire to frighten the devil out of her.”

Soft-haired, soft-eyed Yolande gave a little, delicate shiver, for she was sensitive and fastidious.

“I hope she will not make a great noise,” she said.

Faustina reassured her.

“I do not think so; they say the smoke will soon choke her.”

Yolande gave a sigh of relief and settled herself down for entertainment. Over in the royal enclosure the archbishop of Syracuse turned with an obeisance to the image of the King.

“Shall we begin, sire?” he asked, and the seeming King answered him.

“Is all ready?”

“All, sire,” the archbishop answered.

“Let them begin,” the royal figure commanded. The archbishop bent to where Sigurd Olafson stood, below the royal enclosure.

“The King waits,” he said. Sigurd instantly gave the order for the prisoner to be brought forth. There was a brief pause, then a new flourish of trumpets, and from the dark archway, that yawned like a wolf’s mouth in the side of the amphitheatre, Perpetua was brought in, chained and guarded, and led in front of the royal throne. “She looked very pale,” wrote an old Norman chronicler, “and very fair, and as brave as a sainted martyr.”

The archbishop of Syracuse rose and addressed her.

“Woman, you are charged by the King’s sainted majesty with working by witchcraft against his sovereign person, delivering him to his lips enchantment in a draught of seeming water, to the hurt of his body and the peril of his soul. If you are guilty and will confess yourself, we need not waste some precious moments in a vain contest for your sinful flesh.”

Perpetua answered very quietly and very clearly, and all men in Syracuse heard what she had to say that day.

“I am not guilty. My soul is as clean of sin as on the day my mother gave me birth. I pray Heaven’s forgiveness for the King.”

The archbishop flushed angrily.

“Do not blaspheme,” he commanded. “Then you persist in your appeal to the ordeal of battle?”

“I do appeal,” Perpetua answered, firmly, “hoping that Heaven will strengthen the hand that is lifted to-day in my cause, which is God’s.”

The archbishop frowned.

“You are perverse and stubborn, but the law is plain and must be obeyed. Call the King’s challenger.”

Sigurd, raising his voice, called loudly:

“In the King’s name I call on the King’s challenger to appear.” Rang out a great rattle of trumpets, voices hummed in expectation, and all heads turned in the direction of another archway in the amphitheatre, from which it was known that the challenger and the champion would appear.

Out of the darkness, into the bright light of the arena stepped a figure all in armor, with the visor of his helmet down, so that none could see his face. The armor was plain; the shield bore no device, but it was buzzed about in all directions that this was the Lord Hildebrand, and any doubts were answered by the assertion, patently true, that the Lord Hildebrand did not make one of the glittering group about the King. The archbishop addressed the new-comer.

“Proclaim your purpose,” he commanded.

The challenger, still with his visor lowered, said in a low voice:

“In the King’s name I accuse this woman of witchcraft, and will maintain that charge with my sword, if any be found bold to challenge it.”

The archbishop again rose and asked:

“Does any champion answer on the woman’s side?”

Out of the same archway came Theron in old and rusty armor, with the visor of his helmet up, so that all could behold his wrinkled, haggard face.

“I do,” he cried. “I am her father, and I know her stainless soul. This hand that has so often dealt justice to others may now do justice for itself.”

The archbishop again rose, and spoke.

“Then, by the law, opposer and opposed must do battle to the death. If the challenger gain the day, his charge is proved and the woman dies by fire. If the woman’s champion win, the woman shall be counted innocent and her accuser shall die as she would have died. Let them begin.”

There was a new flourish of trumpets. Then a number of soldiers ran into the arena and set up a spacious ring of short painted staves of wood, colored white and red, and linked together with thick ropes of similarly colored silk. Into this space the challenger and the champion were conducted and left facing each other, while Perpetua was led to the stake, where she mounted the platform and stood, with the piled faggots at her feet, clasping a crucifix to her breast. Father Hieronymus stood with the assistant executioners at the foot of the platform. Once again the archbishop rose, and his words seemed the only stir in the intense silence.

“Let them begin, and God defend the right.”

Again the trumpets thundered, and as the sound died away champion and challenger engaged in combat. The great swords gleamed in the bright air, fell heavily on the lifted shields. All the spectators held their breath. No one expected the fight to last long; and indeed it did not last long. Everybody was confident that the challenger would easily overcome the aged champion, but everybody’s confidence was ill-founded. After a few blows hotly exchanged the sword of Theron struck the helm of his enemy, and to the amazement of the spectators the King’s challenger reeled and fell heavily, clattering to the ground. In a moment Theron was over him with the great sword at the fallen man’s throat.

“Yield or die!” he cried, in a voice in which exultation and astonishment struggled for the mastery.

The fallen man propped himself on one arm.

“I am defeated,” he gasped. “The maid is innocent.”