The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and
courts to the very front of the burning pile--blazing pile, we
should say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre
Eastern beauty--cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires,
but the flames had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were
bursting through the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its
aspect.

The slaves were instantly formed in line to pass leathern buckets
from hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at
this extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in
front of the row, each looking and walking in the contrary
direction to the other, changing their direction at the same moment
as they went and returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of
sight of the watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man
knew, instinctively, that the least movement which looked
suspicious might bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck,
bearing away the trunkless head like a plaything.

Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the
centre of the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular
erection of stone, like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around
it. The flat surface, the disc we may call it, was half composed of
iron bars like a grate, supported by the stonework, and in the
centre ran an iron post with rings stout and strong, from which an
iron girdle, unclasped, depended.

What could it be meant for?

"Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow."