Trussed tightly, he became obdurate, seeking to outlast the pain until unconsciousness would come to his rescue.
Froman spoke to the third man. The fellow produced an oddly-shaped torch and lighted it. He thrust the burning brand into Holtmann’s face. The flame scorched the victim’s cheeks. It approached his eyes, and the helpless man closed his lids tightly to escape the searing touch.
Froman, stolid and unyielding, stood waiting. He gave no word to direct the progress of the torture.
These men were artists in the primitive work of inflicting suffering.
At times the brand drifted away from Holtmann’s scorched face. Instinctively, the man would open his eyes. All that he could see was the stern, unmoving face of Frederick Froman.
Then the light would dance before his vision, throwing its livid heat upon his eyeballs, forcing him to shut his eyes again and seek some freedom from the torturing heat.
Not one of the three inhuman brutes desisted. At times the jacket would be loosened; again, the flaming torch would move away; these were but short respites that presaged a new round of torture.
The deadening pain of the straitjacket was counteracted by the terror of the live torch. There was no escape for Marcus Holtmann. His blistered face showed dry before the light. He was reaching the limit of human endurance.
A pause; then Frederick Froman acted. His signal called for his men to desist.
The pressure of the binding straps relaxed suddenly. The firebrand was drawn away. His throat too parched to emit a sigh, Marcus Holtmann opened his eyes and found himself staring into the sneering face of Frederick Froman.