“Never!” exclaimed Alric sternly.
“Truly thou art a chip of the old tree,” said Hauskuld, taking Alric’s ear between his finger and thumb; “but there are means to take which have been known to bend stouter hearts than thine. Say, wilt thou show me the cave?”
He pinched the ear with gradually increasing force as he spoke, but Alric neither spoke nor winced, although the blood which rushed to his face showed that he felt the pain keenly.
“Well, well,” said the berserk, relaxing his grip, “this is a torture only fit for very small boys after all. Hand me the pincers, Arne.”
One of the men drew in his oar, and from a locker pulled out a pair of large pincers, which he handed to his chief, who at once applied them to the fleshy part at the back of Alric’s arm, between the elbow and the shoulder.
“When thou art willing to do as I bid thee, I will cease to pinch,” said Hauskuld.
Poor Alric had turned pale at the sight of the pincers, for he knew well the use they would be put to; but he set his teeth tightly together, and determined to endure it. As the pain increased the blood rushed again to his face, but an extra squeeze of the instrument of torture sent it rushing back with a deadly chill to his heart. In spite of himself, a sharp cry burst from his lips. Turning suddenly round, he clenched his right hand, and hit his tormentor on the mouth with such force that his head was knocked violently against the steering oar, and two or three of his front teeth were driven out.
“Thou dog’s whelp!” shouted Hauskuld, as soon as he could speak. “I’ll—”
He could say no more; but, grasping the boy by the hair of the head, he seized his sword, and would certainly have slain him on the spot, had not the man named Arne interposed.
“The King will not thank thee for his slaying,” said he, laying his hand on Hauskuld’s arm.