“God bless you, boy,” said Francisco, laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder; “I understand your feelings—nevertheless it were well that you learned to restrain them, for rebellion only works evil. You saw what was the consequence of your attacking the man who struck me to-day—you got knocked down and bastinadoed, and I—”
Francisco paused.
“Yes, go on, father, I know what you mean.”
“Well, I would not hurt your feelings by mentioning it—as you say, you know what I mean.”
“You mean,” said Mariano, “that in consequence of my violence they gave you an additional flogging. True, father, true; and that is the one thing that will now enable me to suffer in silence.”
At this point in the conversation they were interrupted by a deep groan from a young man in the cell opposite, which was prolonged into an appalling cry.
Most of the slaves in the foul den had finished their meagre meal and lain down on the hard floors to seek, in heavy slumber, the repose which was essential to fit them for the toils of the coming day.
Some of them awoke and raised themselves on their elbows, but sank back again on seeing that nothing particular had occurred. A few who had been rendered callous by their sufferings did not take the trouble to move, but Francisco and Mariano rose and hastened to the man, supposing him to have fallen into a fit. Mariano moved with difficulty owing to the chains, upwards of sixty pounds weight, which he wore as a punishment for his recent violence.
“Go—go back to your rest,” said the man, who lay with clenched teeth and hands, as Francisco kneeled beside him, “there is nothing the matter with me.”
“Nay, friend, you are mistaken,” said Francisco, taking his hand kindly; “your look, and that perspiration on your brow, tell me that something is the matter with you. Let me call our jailer, and—”