The edge of the pile was lit, and the flames crackled through the hay
below the faggots. The smoke rose in clouds, and made me sneeze.
Suddenly there came a desperate tickling in my scalp where the knife
had pricked. Little things began to tease me, notably the ache of my
swollen wrists, and the intolerable cramp in my legs.

Then came a sharp burst of pain as a tongue of flame licked on my
anointed ankles. Anguish like hell-fire ran through my frame. I think I
would have cried out if my tongue had had the power. Suddenly I
envisaged the dreadful death which was coming. All was wiped from my
mind, all thought of Ringan, and home, and honour; everything but this
awful fear. Happily the smoke hid my face, which must have been
distraught with panic. The seconds seemed endless. I prayed that
unconsciousness would come. I prayed for death, I prayed for respite. I
was mad with the furious madness of a tortured animal, and the immortal
soul had fled from me and left only a husk of pitiful and shrinking
flesh.

Suddenly there came a lull. A dozen buckets of water were flung on the
pile, and the flames fell to smouldering ashes. The smoke thinned, and
I saw the circle of my tormentors.

The chief spoke, and asked me if my purpose still held.

With the cool shock of the water one moment of bodily comfort returned
to me, and with it a faint revival of my spirit. But it was of no set
intention that I answered as I did. My bones were molten with fright,
and I had not one ounce of bravery in me. Something not myself took
hold on me, and spoke for me. Ringan's tunes, a brisk one this time,