“The crowd was there—the living crowd eager for death—palpitating with excitement—each heart beating with one pitiless feeling of greedy cruelty. And the bells still rang ceaselessly their merry, joyous, fête-like peal.”
After nightfall, in the market-place of Hammelburg, the wretched and crippled form of the witchfinder crouches alone before the smoking cinders of his latest victim. Bloodlust and vengeful bitterness, mistaken in himself for holy zeal, are yet unsated. In him there stirs already the desire to seek another. But for this poor creature, both tormentor and tormented, relief may yet come in a way unexpected.