It was barred and closed.
The windows of my father's house looked barrenly down, like the eye-holes of skulls.

I saw the window from which I used to gaze wistfully down upon the children, who would not play with me, but spat upon the tower when they saw me looking at their play and pipings upon the streets.
There above was the window of my father's garret, with the edge of the black flag blowing out above it.
The streetward door of the Judgment Hall was open, and a great crowd of people stood about, silent, anxious, respectful.

Some of them talked in low tones, and whenever there was a word passed out of the door, within which men looked ten deep, it scattered all about like a wave which comes into a sea-cave by a narrow entrance, and then widens out till it breaks gently in the wide inner hall.
"She is not to be tortured; only the Hereditary Executioner may do that.
They have threatened the old woman.

She has confessed all!" So ran the words about the crowd, and ever and anon, one would detach himself from the press, elbowing his way out, and then speed down the long street, crying the latest tidings of the trial.
It was manifestly impossible for us to obtain entrance by this door.

So we looked about for another.
Then I minded me of the private passage which led from the inner court-yard which I knew so well.