“Pardon, señor,” the neophyte whimpered again.
“A fly stung me while you lingered in the doorway. ’Tis proper that you, also, should be stung!”
“Pardon——”
“Have you no other word? Dios! Pardon—pardon—pardon! Turn your back!”
“Par——”
“Say it not again, or by the good Saint Barbara, for whom this post was named, I’ll have your hide off your body in strips! Turn your back, dog!”
The whip sang through the air. Came a screech from the neophyte even before the lash touched his bare back! Corporal and soldiers sprang to their feet, half terrified at the sudden din, reaching for their weapons, trying to throw off their heavy sleep. Again the lash, and again the screech! Across the shoulders of the Indian two great welts showed. He dropped to his knees; and the lash sang on, verse after verse of its diabolical song, while the soldiers laughed and shouted their approval—until Sergeant Carlos Cassara finally hurled the whip to a far corner of the room and wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.
“’Tis hot for such work, yet it must be done,” he grunted. “Get up, hound! Hereafter do your duties as you have been commanded. And now, tell me—what were you doing at the door?”
“I thought I heard someone approach, señor. It was but for an instant——”
“Do not talk so to me with your crooked tongue! Your padre should teach you truthfulness. As I snored I kept an eye open to watch. You stood there minute after minute, looking up El Camino Real. Whom do you expect?”