“Listen,” said he. “In the Vier Marchi they’re cutting off the ear of a man and nailing it to a post, because he ill-used a cow. What do you suppose they’d do to you, if I took you down there and told them it was through you Rullecour landed, and that you’d have seen them all murdered—eh, maitre cormorant?”
The old man crawled towards Detricand on his knees. “Let me go, let me go,” he whined. “I was mad; I didn’t know what I was doing; I’ve not been right in the head since I was in the Guiana prison.”
At that moment it struck Detricand that the old man must have had some awful experience in prison, for now his eyes had the most painful terror, the most abject fear. He had never seen so craven a sight.
“What were you in prison for in Guiana, and what did they do to you there?” asked Detricand sternly. Again the old man shivered horribly, and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he whined piteously: “Oh no, no, no—for the mercy of Christ, no!” He threw up his hands as if to ward off a blow.
Detricand saw that this was not acting, that it was a supreme terror, an awful momentary aberration; for the traitor’s eyes were wildly staring, the mouth was drawn in agony, the hands were now rigidly clutching an imaginary something, the body stiffened where it crouched.
Detricand understood now. The old man had been tied to a triangle and whipped—how horribly who might know? His mood towards the miserable creature changed: he spoke to him in a firm, quiet tone.
“There, there, you’re not going to be hurt. Be quiet now, and you shall not be touched.”
Then he stooped over, and quickly undoing the old man’s waistcoat, he pulled down the coat and shirt and looked at his back. As far as he could see it was scarred as though by a red-hot iron, and the healed welts were like whipcords on the shrivelled skin. The old man whimpered yet, but he was growing quieter. Detricand lifted him up, and buttoning the shirt and straightening the coat again, he said:
“Now, you’re to go home and sleep the sleep of the unjust, and you’re to keep the sixth commandment, and you’re to tell no more lies. You’ve made a shameful mess of your son’s life, and you’re to die now as soon as you can without attracting notice. You’re to pray for an accident to take you out of the world: a wind to blow you over a cliff, a roof to fall on you, a boat to go down with you, a hole in the ground to swallow you up, a fever or a plague to end you in a day.”
He opened the door to let him go; but suddenly catching his arms held him in a close grip. “Hark!” he said in a mysterious whisper.