I shifted my lantern so that I could see the proud young face, while Denny could not. The boy’s eyes met mine defiantly.
‘Do you see that whip?’ I asked. ‘Will you tell us all we want to know?’
The boy made no answer, but I saw trouble in his face, and his eyes did not meet mine so boldly now.
‘We’ll soon find a tongue for him,’ said Denny, in cheerful barbarity; ‘upon my word, he richly deserves a thrashing. Say the word, Charley!’
‘We haven’t asked him anything yet,’ said I.
‘Oh, I’ll ask him something. Look here, who was the fellow with you and Vlacho?’
Denny spoke in English; I turned his question into Greek. But the prisoner’s eyes told me that he had understood before I spoke. I smiled again.
The boy was silent; defiance and fear struggled in the dark eyes.
‘You see he’s an obstinate beggar,’ said Denny, as though he had observed all necessary forms and could now get to business; and he drew the lash of the whip through his fingers. I am afraid Denny was rather looking forward to executing justice with his own hands.
The boy rose again and stood facing that heartless young ruffian Denny—it was thus that I thought of Denny at the moment; then once again he sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands.