“Now—will you read?” came the question again.
The natural fear of death, and that in a horrible form, brought the dews of perspiration to the unfortunate man’s brow, as the evil savage, whose hand quivered with eagerness to inflict the final slash, actually divided the skin. Yet, looking his tormentors steadily in the face, he answered—
“No!”
The man in authority said a few words. The assegai blade was lowered, and Sandgate’s head was released.
“Now,” went on the English-speaking Kafir, “we not kill you—not yet. We try hot assegai blade—between toes. That make you read, hey?”
And even as he spoke a fire was in process of kindling, which a few minutes sufficed to blow up into a roaring blaze.
If the imminence of a horrible form of death had been appalling to these two, it was nothing to this. Should they be able to stand firm under the ghastly torture that awaited, the very thought of which was enough to turn them sick? And yet—the issue at stake! The war-cloud, though brooding, had not yet burst; but did it get to the knowledge of their enemies that the only force which overawed them, and to that extent held them in check, was short of ammunition, why, the effect would be to let loose tens of thousands of raging devils, not only upon that force itself, but upon the whole more or less defenceless frontier. This was in the minds of both, as quickly Sandgate’s boot was cut from his foot, while one fiend, who had plucked a red-hot blade from the fire, stood, eagerly awaiting his orders.
“Now—will you read?”
“No!” shouted Sandgate, his eyes staring at his questioner in horror and despair. Then followed a long and shuddering groan, and in it, and the convulsive writhe of the victim, Dick Selmes seemed to share. His comrade’s agony was his own.
At a sign from the English-speaking Kafir the instrument of torment was withdrawn.