At the execution ground goats and cocks were killed, then it came to my turn.
The king came to have a last look at me. The cords were undone, and I stood up staggering because my feet were swollen. The king looked at my hands: they were swollen double the size.
The king rubbed his nose.
The king was thinking.
“Now,” he must have thought, “here is a hand (meaning my swollen fist) that couldn’t hurt anybody. What a chance to redeem my lost honour!”
The king took more rum.
Then he started from his throne and shouted. What he said matters little. At the conclusion of his speech I was again dragged up to fight the king. If I could have hit him then I would have done so. But with such hands, how could I? So it ended in my being fearfully punished.
Then there was such shouting and yelling as I had never before heard in my life. But I was free.
The king took more rum.
For a whole year after this I was kept under almost constant surveillance, but there was no more fighting.