Worn with long confinement, with suspense and anxiety, fatigued and
suffering from her painful walk, and the exposure to the burning sun,
after so many months' incarceration in a dungeon, she no longer shone
radiant with beauty; but still there was something even more touching
in her care-worn, yet still perfect features. The object of universal
gaze, she had walked with her eyes cast down, and nearly closed; but
occasionally, when she did look up, the fire that flashed from them
spoke the proud soul within, and many feared and wondered, while more
pitied that one so young, and still so lovely, should be doomed to
such an awful fate. Amine had not taken her seat in the Cathedral more
than a few seconds, when, overpowered by her feelings and by fatigue,
she fell back in a swoon. Did no one step forward to assist her? to raise her up, and offer her
restoratives? No--not one. Hundreds would have done so, but they dared
not: she was an outcast, excommunicated, abandoned, and lost; and
should any one, moved by compassion for a suffering fellow-creature,
have ventured to raise her up, he would have been looked upon with
suspicion, and most probably have been arraigned, and have had to
settle the affair of conscience with the Holy Inquisition. After a short time two of the officers of the Inquisition went to
Amine and raised her again in her seat, and she recovered sufficiently
to enable her to retain her posture. A sermon was then preached by a Dominican monk, in which he pourtrayed
the tender mercies, the paternal love of the Holy Office. He compared
the Inquisition to the ark of Noah, out of which all the animals
walked after the deluge; but with this difference, highly in favour of
the Holy Office, that the animals went forth from the ark no better
than they went in, whereas those who had gone into the Inquisition
with all the cruelty of disposition, and with the hearts of wolves,
came out as mild and patient as lambs. The public accuser then mounted the pulpit, and read from it all the
crimes of those who had been condemned, and the punishments which they
were to undergo. Each prisoner, as the sentence was read, was brought
forward to the pulpit by the officers, to hear their sentence,
standing up, with their wax candles lighted in their hands. As soon as
the sentences of all those whose lives had been spared were read, the
Grand Inquisitor put on his priestly robes and, followed by several
others, took off from them the ban of excommunication (which they were
supposed to have fallen under), by throwing holy water on them with a
small broom. As soon as this portion of the ceremony was over, those who were
condemned to suffer, and the effigies of those who had escaped by
death, were brought up one by one, and their sentences read; the
winding up of the condemnation of all was in the same words, "that the
Holy Inquisition found it impossible on account of the hardness of
their hearts and the magnitude of their crimes, to pardon them. With
great concern it handed them over to Secular Justice to undergo the
penalty of the laws; exhorting the authorities at the same time to
show clemency and mercy towards the unhappy wretches, and if they
_must_ suffer death, that at all events it might be without the
_spilling of blood_." What mockery was this apparent intercession, not
to shed blood, when to comply with their request, they substituted the
torment and the agony of the stake! Amine was the last who was led forward to the pulpit, which was fixed
against one of the massive columns of the centre aisle, close to the
throne occupied by the Grand Inquisitor. "You, Amine Vanderdecken,"
cried the public accuser. At this moment an unusual bustle was heard
in the crowd under the pulpit, there was struggling and expostulation,
and the officers raised their wands for silence and decorum--but it
continued. "You, Amine Vanderdecken, being accused--"

Another violent struggle; and from the crowd darted a young man, who
rushed to where Amine was standing, and caught her in his arms. "Philip! Philip!" screamed Amine, falling on his bosom; as he caught
her, the cap of flames fell off her head and rolled along the marble
pavement. "My Amine--my wife--my adored one--is it thus we meet? My
lord, she is innocent. Stand off, men," continued he to the officers
of the Inquisition, who would have torn them asunder. "Stand off, or
your lives shall answer for it." This threat to the officers, and the defiance of all rules, were not
to be borne; the whole Cathedral was in a state of commotion, and the
solemnity of the ceremony was about to be compromised. The Viceroy and
his followers had risen from their chairs to observe what was passing,
and the crowd was pressing on, when the Grand Inquisitor gave his
directions, and other officers hastened to the assistance of the
two who had led Amine forward, and proceeded to disengage her from
Philip's arms. The struggle was severe. Philip appeared to be endued
with the strength of twenty men; and it was some minutes before they
could succeed in separating him, and when they had so done, his
struggles were dreadful. Amine, also, held by two of the familiars, shrieked, as she attempted
once more, but in vain, to rush into her husband's arms. At last, by
a tremendous effort, Philip released himself, but as soon as he was
released, he sank down helpless on the pavement; the exertion had
caused the bursting of a blood-vessel, and he lay without motion. "Oh God! Oh God! they have killed him--monsters--murderers--let me
embrace him but once more," cried Amine, frantically. A priest now stepped forward--it was Father Mathias--with sorrow in
his countenance; he desired some of the bystanders to carry out Philip
Vanderdecken, and Philip, in a state of insensibility, was borne away
from the sight of Amine, the blood streaming from his mouth. Amine's sentence was read--she heard it not, her brain was bewildered. She was led back to her seat, and then it was that all her courage,
all her constancy and fortitude gave way; and during the remainder
of the ceremony, she filled the Cathedral with her wild hysterical
sobbing; all entreaties or threats being wholly lost upon her. All was now over, except the last and most tragical scene of the
drama. The culprits who had been spared were led back to the
Inquisition by their godfathers, and those who had been sentenced were
taken down to the banks of the river to suffer. It was on a large open
space, on the left of the Custom-house, that this ceremony was to be
gone through. As in the Cathedral, raised thrones were prepared for
the Grand Inquisitor and the Viceroy, who, in state, headed the
procession, followed by an immense concourse of people. Thirteen
stakes had been set up, eight for the living, five for the dead. The
executioners were sitting on, or standing by, the piles of wood and
faggots, waiting for their victims.