Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamed of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lips to receive the blow—the first he had ever felt.
The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright, handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.
He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:
"I hate to strike you, my son—"
"Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.
"I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me what you know and it'll be all right."
"I can't—"
"No matter how little, and I'll let you off."
"Will you?"
"I promise."