"Yet another proof," exclaimed Mole, grandly.
"No more, no more," exclaimed the Turk.
Mole withdrew the nail from his foot, and the dagger from his leg, and seizing the sword, he thrust it with ferocious energy into the other mutilated leg.
He pressed his hand to the wound, and the blood flowed out in a small torrent, while the spectators groaned.
Mole looked round him proudly—defiantly.
Had he just conquered on the field of Waterloo, he could not have shown a greater apparent belief in himself.
He smiled sardonically as he bound up the wounded legs with his scarf.
Mr. Mole here nearly spoilt his exhibition of his marvellous power of endurance, for pricking his finger accidentally with a pin, he sang out lustily, much to the astonishment of the Turks.
But he was lucky to recover himself in time before the Turks could divine what had occurred.
"You must invent something more violent than any punishment I have yet seen here, if you would subdue the soul of Isaac Mole."