Sigurd, raising his voice, called loudly:
"In the King's name I call on the King's challenger to appear." Rang out a great rattle of trumpets, voices hummed in expectation, and all heads turned in the direction of another archway in the amphitheatre, from which it was known that the challenger and the champion would appear.
Out of the darkness, into the bright light of the arena stepped a figure all in armor, with the visor of his helmet down, so that none could see his face. The armor was plain; the shield bore no device, but it was buzzed about in all directions that this was the Lord Hildebrand, and any doubts were answered by the assertion, patently true, that the Lord Hildebrand did not make one of the glittering group about the King. The archbishop addressed the new-comer.
The challenger, still with his visor lowered, said in a low voice:
"In the King's name I accuse this woman of witchcraft, and will maintain that charge with my sword, if any be found bold to challenge it."
"Does any champion answer on the woman's side?"
Out of the same archway came Theron in old and rusty armor, with the visor of his helmet up, so that all could behold his wrinkled, haggard face.
"I do," he cried. "I am her father, and I know her stainless soul. This hand that has so often dealt justice to others may now do justice for itself."
"Then, by the law, opposer and opposed must do battle to the death. If the challenger gain the day, his charge is proved and the woman dies by fire. If the woman's champion win, the woman shall be counted innocent and her accuser shall die as she would have died. Let them begin."
There was a new flourish of trumpets. Then a number of soldiers ran into the arena and set up a spacious ring of short painted staves of wood, colored white and red, and linked together with thick ropes of similarly colored silk. Into this space the challenger and the champion were conducted and left facing each other, while Perpetua was led to the stake, where she mounted the platform and stood, with the piled faggots at her feet, clasping a crucifix to her breast. Father Hieronymus stood with the assistant executioners at the foot of the platform. Once again the archbishop rose, and his words seemed the only stir in the intense silence.