The road led through the town, which was surrounded by high walls and deep ditches.

There was no possibility of going round it, yet the drawbridges were already raised and the gates locked, so he boldly called the warder and showed his passport.
An officer asked to see the artist.

Ulrich said that he would follow him; but the soldier was not satisfied, and ordered him to alight and accompany him to the commandant.
Ulrich struck his spurs into the Andalusian's flanks and tried to go back over the road by which he had come; but the horse had scarcely begun to gallop, when a shot was fired, that stretched it on the ground.
The rider was dragged into the guard-house as a prisoner, and subjected to a severe examination.
He was suspected of having murdered Moor and of having stolen his money, for a purse filled with ducats was found on his person.

While he was being fettered, the pursuers reached Avila.
A new examination began, and now trial followed trial, torture, torture.
Even at Avila a sack was thrown over his head, and only opened, when to keep him alive, he was fed with bread and water.

Firmly bound in a two-wheeled cart, drawn by mules, he was dragged over stock and stones to Madrid.
Often, in the darkness, oppressed for breath, jolted, bruised, unable to control his thoughts, or even his voice, he expected to perish; yet no fainting-fit, no moment of utter unconsciousness pityingly came to his relief, far less did any human heart have compassion on his suffering.
At last, at last he was unbound, and led, still with his head covered, into a small, dark room.
Here he was released from the sack, but again loaded with chains.
When he was left alone and had regained the capacity to think, he felt convinced that he was in one of the dungeons of the Inquisition.