“I’ll make you tell!”
“You can’t.”
“We shall see.”
Brattle turned to one of the men and asked him in French for his knife. When he turned back, he held a long, glittering blade in his fingers.
“Now,” he said, resting one knee on the bench and grasping Frank by the neck, “we’ll see if you can be made to tell!”
The point of the knife was at Frank Merriwell’s throat. Merry felt it pricking there, but he never winced or showed the least sign of fear.
Brattle was surprised.
“Can you feel the knife?” he sneered, “or are you too scared to feel anything, you young fool?”
“I can feel it very plainly, thank you,” said Frank. “I should say that the point must be just above my jugular vein.”
Brattle cried out something in French, and there came muttered exclamations of astonishment and admiration from the ruffians who were watching everything. They could not help admiring the nerve of the captive. In the center of the cellar Bruce Browning was twisting and straining at his bonds, the veins beginning to stand out like cords on his face and neck.