Martin Valliant by Warwick Deeping

Martin Valliant and Swartz went back to the tower, for a stage had been set and the play was about to begin with the wracking of a man's soul.

Martin leaned against the battlement, his face turned toward the great beech wood, and his eyes fixed on the green bower that Rich's men had built. He had taken Swartz's words to heart; he was hardening himself, preparing to bear his torture without flinching and without uttering a sound. He thought of the day when he had hung on the cross to prove himself stronger than Kate Succory's youth, and how the physical pain was as nothing to this torment of the soul. Swartz sat close to him with his back to the wall, and Swartz's face was very grim. He had changed sides, turned rebel; he was a good hound, and no cur.