“So it appears,” replied Jack, in a tone of quiet contempt, as he sat on the ground with his back leaning against the wall, his hands clasped above his solitary knee, and his thumbs revolving round each other slowly. “I say,” continued Jack, an expression of concern crossed his handsome countenance, “I’m afraid you’re damaged, rather, about your head-piece. Your eye seems a little out of order, and, pardon me, but your nose is a little too flat—just a little. My poor fellow, I’m quite sorry for you; I really am, though you are a dog.”
The man opened his solitary eye and stared with amazement at Jack, who smiled, and, putting his head a little to the other side, returned the stare with interest.
“You’re a bold fellow,” said the man, on recovering a little from his surprise.
“I’m sorry,” retorted Jack, “that I cannot return you the compliment.”
I was horrified. I saw that my poor friend, probably under the influence of madness, had made up his mind to insult and defy our captors to their teeth, regardless of consequences. I tried to speak, but my lips refused their office. The man grinned horribly and gnashed his teeth, while the others made as though they would rush upon us and tear us limb from limb. But their chief, for such the spokesman seemed to be, restrained them.
“Hah!” he gasped, looking fiercely at Jack, and at the same time pointing to the implements on the wall, “d’ye see these things?”
“Not being quite so blind as you are, I do.”
“D’ye know what they’re for?”
“Not being a demon, which you seem to be, I don’t.”
“Hah! these—are,” (he spoke very slowly, and hissed the words out between his teeth),—“torterers!”