To the brutalized ruffians, the tragedy was more like a pleasant farce.
“Only two this morning?” asked one of those holding a whip.
“May be more presently,” replied one of the men with us.
“I want more exercise than this,” was the growling answer, uttered with a sort of snarling laugh.
“You’ll have plenty with this dog. He struck the captain.”
“He looks as if he had less stomach for his breakfast than the girl here.”
The taunt bit like an acid and did more than anything could have done to revive my drooped courage.
In this coarse way they jested until another prisoner was brought out from a different cell and tied up for the lash. I will not dwell on the sickening scene which followed. I shut my eyes and, had I not been ironed, would gladly have closed my ears as well to keep out the awful sound of the poor wretch’s screams, until the blessed relief of unconsciousness silenced them.
Pia stood with her hands clasped to her eyes and her thumbs pressed close to her ears, and did not look up until the unfortunate victim was carried away, the blood dripping from his lacerated back making a gruesome and significant track across the flags.
I thought my flogging would follow immediately; but it turned out otherwise. We had merely been made to witness the terrible punishment that our courage might be broken and our senses racked by the sight of what was in store for us.