Bonaparte followed him in, and closed the door carefully. He put the light down on the heap of dung in the corner, and quietly introduced his hand under his coat-tails, and drew slowly from his pocket the end of a rope, which he concealed behind him.
“I’m very sorry, exceedingly sorry, Waldo, my lad, that you should have acted in this manner. It grieves me,” said Bonaparte.
He moved round toward the boy’s back. He hardly liked the look in the fellow’s eyes, though he stood there motionless. If he should spring on him!
So he drew the rope out very carefully, and shifted round to the wooden post. There was a slipknot in one end of the rope, and a sudden movement drew the boy’s hands to his back and passed it round them. It was an instant’s work to drag it twice round the wooden post: then Bonaparte was safe.
For a moment the boy struggled to free himself; then he knew that he was powerless, and stood still.
“Horses that kick must have their legs tied,” said Bonaparte, as he passed the other end of the rope round the boy’s knees. “And now, my dear Waldo,” taking the whip out of his pocket, “I am going to beat you.”
He paused for a moment. It was perfectly quiet; they could hear each other’s breath.
“‘Chasten thy son while there is hope,’” said Bonaparte, “‘and let not thy soul spare for his crying.’ Those are God’s words. I shall act as a father to you, Waldo. I think we had better have your naked back.”
He took out his penknife, and slit the shirt down from the shoulder to the waist.
“Now,” said Bonaparte, “I hope the Lord will bless and sanctify to you what I am going to do to you.”