The distracted girl jumped with fright at the explosive force of the command.
“Marya, heat your poker in the flames of the fireplace and then bring it here to me!”
“Oh, father—dear father, no! no! no! Not that! You wouldn’t torture this poor boy?” she pleaded.
The old wretch snarled savagely at her as he ripped open the bosom of Ned’s shirt, showing the soft, white skin underneath.
“Did you hear me, Marya!”
Trembling violently, the girl did his bidding. Shortly the white-hot iron was glowing in his threatening hand. He held it so close to Ned’s shrinking flesh that the heat it gave off was almost intolerable.
“Now will you tell?”
The boy shut his eyes and with gritted teeth awaited the scorching touch upon his chest. But it never came. A harsh voice that one would never have recognized as that of the girl who a few minutes before had cowered in terror, said:
“Father, throw up your hands, or, as there is a hereafter, I will shoot you with your own revolver!”
Marya Racoszky stood with one arm steadily pointing a huge revolver at her parent’s head.