“Well, sir, will you have that beard taken off? you have slept over it a whole night now; what do you say? I don’t want to flog an old man like you, Ushant!”
“My beard is my own, sir!” said the old man, lowly.
“Will you take it off?”
“It is mine, sir?” said the old man, tremulously.
“Rig the gratings?” roared the Captain. “Master-at-arms, strip him! quarter-masters, seize him up! boatswain’s mates, do your duty!”
While these executioners were employed, the Captain’s excitement had a little time to abate; and when, at last, old Ushant was tied up by the arms and legs and his venerable back was exposed—that back which had bowed at the guns of the frigate Constitution when she captured the Guerriere—the Captain seemed to relent.
“You are a very old man,” he said, “and I am sorry to flog you; but my orders must be obeyed. I will give you one more chance; will you have that beard taken off?”
“Captain Claret,” said the old man, turning round painfully in his bonds, “you may flog me if you will; but, sir, in this one thing I cannot obey you.”
“Lay on! I’ll see his backbone!” roared the Captain in a sudden fury.
“By Heaven!” thrillingly whispered Jack Chase, who stood by, “it’s only a halter; I’ll strike him!”