A few moments later he came back.
“Lift up your right foot. That’s right. Now the left. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, I have only put a little piece of wood to separate you from the ground and keep the cold from freezing your feet.”
“Ah! thank you! But you will get into trouble! If any one has seen you!”
“Well, cheer up! Good-bye for the present.” He went on towards the office.
“No, don’t go there. I am very well now and it won’t be long before I am released. Leave me.”
But already the Frenchman was out of earshot. He went to the office, not many steps from there, where the light from the windows was piercing the darkness. His indignation was great and he felt his anger rising. What! there were men—executioners—so cruel as to order that one of their own kind should be tied up like a packet and fastened to a post, his limbs bound so that the normal circulation was impossible! There were men so unworthy of the name as to make such a horrible punishment last for over four hours in that deadly weather! And they wanted people to cease calling them Huns and barbarians! The interpreter was so furious that he almost knocked over a figure coming in the opposite direction. In a moment he perceived him. It was a German, an adjutant. His anger was so great that he forgot to salute. He found himself face to face with the adjutant who had the worst reputation among the French, and yet the hate that this man had for the French was like “sweet milk” in comparison with the hatred he nourished for the English. Without preamble the interpreter accosts this churlish man.
“Adjutant, I wish to bring to your notice a case of gross neglect. It is six o’clock; it is 6° or 7° below zero and a man is still tied to the pillory.”
With a smile the jailer replied in a light mocking tone: