"Are you suffering?" I asked, greatly moved by the expression of agony imprinted on his pallid face.
"It will pass, Monsieur," he answered bravely, trying to smile at me. "'Tis strange the spirit of man is so enslaved to the flesh that one cannot wholly master a bit of physical pain. No doubt I am somewhat cramped from my long imprisonment, and, perchance, my wounds have not rightly healed."
"Are you wounded? I beg you permit me to attend to that. I possess some small skill in the bandaging and dressing of cuts."
His eyes rested upon me with all the tenderness of a woman.
"I truly thank you, Monsieur, but it is beyond your skill to aid me, even were you of the school of Paris. They be of a savage nature, which God alone may beautify."
He slightly lifted his long black robe as he spoke, and may the merciful Father forgive the oath which sprang to my lips as I gazed in horror at the disfiguration—two fleshless limbs, one without even the semblance of a foot, merely a blackened, charred stump rested on the rock floor.
"Mother of God!" I sobbed, "it has been burned off!"
"Ay," he returned, in all gentleness, covering the awful sight. "Yet were they gladly given for Christ's sake."
"I doubt that not," gazing in wonder at his girlish face. "But tell me, who were guilty of such fiendish cruelty—the savages of this tribe?"
"Two months ago it was done in the valley below, in the village of the Natchez," his eyes again upon the crucifix. "Yet dwell not upon it, Monsieur, for it is so little I can hope to do for the glory of God. It may be I am not even worthy of martyrdom."