For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. ‘Pig! Pig, a thousand times!’ Running footsteps could be heard now, and she knew that the commotion was bringing the nuns, just as she had hoped. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.
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