The surgeon bent over him for a moment, felt his wrist, and looked into his eyes. Then he stood up again.
“There is work for the grave-digger, not for me, M. le Duc,” he said. “You twisted the necklet a shade too tightly.”
“Necklet!” repeated Roquefort, strangled by rage. “Body of God! It was no necklet—’twas yonder scoundrel’s fingers!”
Briquet turned and looked at me with a little air of curiosity.
“They must be strong ones,” he observed, simply.
But Roquefort’s rage had quite mastered him.
“We shall see!” he yelled. “We shall test every muscle of him! Remain here, Briquet—I want the end deferred as long as it may be! To the rack with him!”
I strained to hurl from me the scoundrels who held me to right and left, but they were doubtless accustomed to the work, for they threw me by some trick of wrestling, and, seizing me by arm, leg, thigh, and body, bore me into the shadows of the farther corner.
If ever man fought to save himself, I fought then, but I had no chance—I saw it in a moment. First one arm, then the other, was strapped down above my head, and in an instant I felt the straps drawn tight about my ankles. I strained at them till I thought my heart would burst, but they held quite firm. Then, with white fear at my throat, I lay still and waited. I could do no more!
They brought the torches and stuck them into brackets in the wall above me, where they would illumine every line of my face. Roquefort took his place at the foot, whence he could look down into my eyes. Briquet stationed himself beside me and looked at me as one interested in a new experiment. Plainly his heart had been hardened by a hundred such spectacles. And yet, as I stared up at him, I fancied I saw in his eyes a look of encouragement Where had I seen that face before? Somewhere, surely!