Before the two clergymen had got half-way down the steep path that led from the Commandant's house to the flat on which the cottages of the doctor and chaplain were built, Macklewain rejoined them. “Another flogging to-morrow,” said he grumblingly. “Up at daylight, I suppose, again.”
“Whom is he going to flog now?”
“That young butler-fellow of his.” “What, Kirkland?” cried North. “You don't mean to say he's going to flog Kirkland?”
“Insubordination,” says Macklewain. “Fifty lashes.”
“Oh, this must be stopped,” cried North, in great alarm. “He can't stand it. I tell you, he'll die, Macklewain.”
“Perhaps you'll have the goodness to allow me to be the best judge of that,” returned Macklewain, drawing up his little body to its least insignificant stature.
“My dear sir,” replied North, alive to the importance of conciliating the surgeon, “you haven't seen him lately. He tried to drown himself this morning.”
Mr. Meekin expressed some alarm; but Dr. Macklewain re-assured him. “That sort of nonsense must be stopped,” said he. “A nice example to set. I wonder Burgess didn't give him a hundred.”
“He was put into the long dormitory,” said North; “you know what sort of a place that is. I declare to Heaven his agony and shame terrified me.”
“Well, he'll be put into the hospital for a week or so to-morrow,” said Macklewain, “and that'll give him a spell.”