“Ay, look!” exclaimed Gardiner, holding up his arms, yet forced at once to drop them through pain.
Bradford and Standish stared in amazement, for through the tattered and stripped sleeves of the knight’s doublet and fine Hollands shirt could be seen many and cruel weals as of stripes, some of them still bleeding, others crusted with dry blood, and others lividly bruised. The hands were in even yet more pitiable case, discolored, swollen, and cut so that they hardly looked like hands at all.
“What is this? What has chanced to your hands and arms, sir?” demanded the governor.
“Ask those red devils there,” replied Sir Christopher bitterly. “And let me ask if it was not done by your own orders.”
“By my orders! Never, so help me God!” cried Bradford; and then turning upon the Indians he demanded,—
“Is this your work, Weetonawah, or is it the Shawmut’s? Did I not warn you both to bring in the man with all care and humane tenderness?”
The Indians looked at each other, drew their skin mantles closer about them as if in assertion of their own dignity, and finally uttered a few words which Standish as briefly translated:—
“They say they did but a little whip him with sticks, and it is no harm.”
“But why did they whip him, little or much?”