Once he was alone in the cell, he sat on the stone bed beneath the window. He hadn't been sitting long when he felt a sharp pain in the middle of his back. As a rock fell to the floor he jumped with a start and whirled around to see two small boys through the slit above him. He wanted to lunge at the window to take hold of a leg if he could. But he was not fast enough. The boys ran away yelling taunts over their shoulders. He surely did not deserve such wretched treatment, but was in little position to restrain such. He decided to avoid sitting beneath the window.
As the boys ran off he noticed that there was considerably more traffic on the narrow roadway now than he had expected. The road was lined with shoppes and a small stone walkway ran along each side. The village center stood near an open meadow through which ran the River Welland. The river and meadow existed outside the village wall and the only access near the dungeon was over a narrow stone bridge and through a gateway. The stone bridge and the river were to the left of the dungeon. There seemed to be a general flow of people from the direction of the bridge.
Some women, fortunate enough to have the means, darted in and out of shoppes buying provisions and bread for their families, but most people were making their way to the village square.
The square was to the right of the window as the prisoner looked out. The most prominent feature of the stone-cobbled square was St. Mary's Church. The church was already several hundred years old. He did not have a full view of the square nor the church, but he could see that at least one man was bent on the task of stacking wood in the square near the base of the church spire.
'So this is the reason for the wagons,' he exclaimed half to himself and half aloud. His heart began to pound within his breast. Of all the ways to die, he thought, this was surely the worst; excruciating in its pain, insulting in its spectacle.
Just then he heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open on their massive hinges. He stood at the door of the cell and through its small window-like opening he could see the glow of candles as two men descended the steps from above. The men cast larger-than-life shadows on the walls as they came down the stairs. They walked briskly to the cell where the prisoner was kept. Thoughts of fighting them off and escaping crossed his mind. He knew however that such thoughts were useless. Even if he were able to get out of the cell, how might he get past the guards beyond the top of the stairs?
Now the soldiers were at the door and it was thrown open. He almost cried out for mercy, but before he could do so they grabbed him by the arms and dragged him from the cell. For a moment, he was struck with disbelief. He gave a momentary struggle, but it was useless, the men were much larger and had a firm grip. One of them withdrew a double-sided dagger and threaten to slit his throat right there if he made any further attempts to flee.
At the top of the stairs they bound his hands behind his back and led, or pushed, him out into the street. A light snow continued to fall and the gentle breeze was chilling, but he did not notice either. The crowds of faces seemed a blur as he was led past the throng. People filled the roadway from one side to the other and they seemed to stumble over themselves to get out of the way.
On past the dungeon he was marched, toward St. Mary’s and the village square. Twice he stumbled on cobblestone and was jerked to his feet by the soldiers. He entered the village square to cries of, ‘Burn 'im! Burn the 'eretic!’
The pile of wood was in the middle of the square. Surrounding the square were houses of wealthy people. Most of them two and three stories with balconies. Each balcony was filled now. Some people were crying, others acted as though it were a day of celebration. Some mothers were busy rounding up their little ones and rushing them away from the scene.