He got up, and, pocketing the revolver, approached menacingly. Lawless watched him in silence. Van Bleit, it was clear, meant mischief; and he was powerless to defend himself, incapable of hitting back. The knowledge of his helplessness galled him unspeakably. To have had his hands free! ... just his bare hands, and nothing more...
“It’s a safe game you’re playing,” he observed drily. “If I faced you with my bare fists you wouldn’t take this tone.”
“Safe game or not,” Van Bleit shouted, “I’m going to punish you, my boy. There’s a treatment for treachery that has been found efficacious before.”
He snatched at a riding-whip which one of the men had dropped, and struck the strong quiet face he hated again and again with it, raising a dozen weals on the thin tanned cheeks. One blow cut Lawless’ lip open, and the blood spurted out and ran down his chin, and stained the blonde moustache. At each blow he winced though he made no sound, but the wince gave Van Bleit immense satisfaction. The score he had to pay off against this man was heavy. To his influence he attributed the coldness of Zoë Lawless... That could only be expatiated with his life; but the taking of human life meant a risk Karl Van Bleit would not again lightly undertake. He had a morbid horror of the hangman’s rope since it had dangled so perilously near his own neck.
When he had flogged Lawless in the face, he flogged him again across the shoulders with even greater venom. This being borne without flinching, soon ceased to amuse him, and he flung the whip from him with an oath.
“That’s enough for the present, damn you! If we meet again you’ll know what to expect. I shan’t spare your life a second time... It’s almost a pity,” he reflected, inclination weighing against discretion, “to lose this chance of quieting you. Who’s to know if I settle your account for ever?”
For the next few seconds Lawless felt his life hung in the balance. His whole being revolted against the thought of death at this man’s hands without ever a chance of repaying the insult he had suffered. If his life were spared that day he vowed he would never rest until he had squared their account finally. Some idea of this probability seemed to possess Van Bleit, and inclined him strongly toward committing the foul deed he contemplated; but Denzil, the more timorous, stood out against murder.
“There are the horses, Karl,” he urged... “Any amount of awkward questions may be asked.”
“All right,” Van Bleit said shortly. “We’ll leave him as he is. It will take him all he knows to worry his hands free.”
He struck his foe again in the face with his open hand, and turning away, walked towards the horses. He mounted, and Denzil following his example, they rode off, leaving their victim seated on the veld, his wrists securely bound, without, so far as they knew, any prospect of freeing them, and with no available means of pursuit. It was a safe game, as Lawless had said.