"Sir Charles," said I, "I thought myself a liar till I met this woman—and selfish too beyond comparison. Did you ever hear the maxim I invented for the ruling of my life? It was this:—'First person paramount!' But look at her! She dwarfs and shadows me so much, without a maxim but her womanhood, that I can only keep my dignity by noising my defeat. Here am I, bound, helpless, ill, and threatened with a painful death, because of her. But she has jewels which she sets before my agony, and she would spare herself the shame of witnessing that agony. Wherefore she tries to fool me to the end, not caring what I suffer, so that her eyes and ears are not offended."
Sir Charles nodded his head, and it is very likely he believed me, for his eyes gleamed scorn at Marion.
"It is your turn," he said coldly.
"My turn, monsieur," she shuddered and turned crimson, it seemed to me with passion.
"Your turn," he repeated.
"Very well!" she cried in a voice grown hoarse and desperate. "Torture him! Torture him! That is all I have to say!"
Sir Charles glanced from her to the negroes. "Light the stove," he said.
The wretches disappeared behind my chair, and I heard one strike a lucifer.
"What is the bill of fare?" I jauntily inquired.
The surgeon smiled evilly. "I am too good a host to keep you in suspense!" he said. "For hors d'oeuvre, Jussieu will stroke your soles with red hot needles. Potage—we'll fill you palms with boiling oil. The entrée——"