Jack Harkaway and His Son's Escape from the Brigands of Greece Part 131

"If any of you think, my men, that he should not be punished, he shall escape. Let any man stand forth and it shall settle it. I will allow him to escape and not question the motives of whosoever speaks for him."

Hunston looked anxiously around him.

Not a voice.

Not so much as a glance of pity did he encounter there.

His only hope was in the man that he had most wronged of all there present, and so in despair he turned to Harkaway.

But the latter moved away from the spot in silence.

Despair.

Rough, h.o.r.n.y hands were laid upon him, and his coat and s.h.i.+rt were torn in shreds from his back until he stood stripped to the waist.

The grating was rigged for punishment, and the culprit was lashed securely to it.

"Barclay."

"Yes, sir."

"Stand forward."

"Here, sir."

"Take the cat."

"Yes, sir."

This was the youngest boy in the s.h.i.+p. The lad took the whip and poised it in his hand eager to begin operations.

"Joe Basalt."

"Yes, your honour."

"Time the strokes."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The boy Barclay now received his instructions, and noted the same most diligently.

"Strike well up, not too low. You understand, well across the shoulders."

"Yes, cap'n,"

"And don't be too eager or too quick. Let each stroke tell its own tale."

What were the miserable man's feelings when he heard his torture prepared thus, with such coolness and deliberation, we leave you to imagine.

A momentary pause then occurred, during which every one present looked on with mixed sensations of eagerness and dread.

"One!"

A whizzing noise.

Then a dull, heavy thud, as the thongs came in contact with the culprit's back and shoulders.

A gasp came from the spectators, a convulsive shudder from the suffering wretch himself.

And then his shoulders showed a series of livid ridges of bruised flesh.

"Two."

Down came the lash.

The blood shot forth from the right shoulder, where there was more flesh to encounter the cruel whip.

"Three."

A moan of utter anguish burst from the victim, whose blood streamed down his back.

A sickening, horrible sight to contemplate.

"Four."

"Hah!"

"Come away," exclaimed Harkaway; "come away from this. It makes me sick and faint."

"Yes," said Jefferson; "it is not to my taste."

"Nor mine."

"Nor mine," said d.i.c.k.

"This may be Justice, my friend," said Jack Harkaway "but it isn't English--it is not humanity."

"Five."

A cry came from the prisoner.

"Cast him loose!" cried Harkaway, "No more--no more!"

But the sailors did not appear to hear.

"Six."

"Have done, I say!" thundered Jefferson. "Enough of this!"