Anderson shook his head and bellowed at the bystanders.
"No, boys," he shouted, "we're going to do as Laurance says and give him a chance. Make room, there!"
The sullen onlookers obeyed, leaving an open spot at the post which held Morris and another man, a thick-set fellow with a walrus-hide whip in his hand. Tense silence oppressed the spectators, contrasting strikingly with their former growls of impatience.
"Strip!" commanded the hard voice of Anderson.
Morris removed his outer coat, or parka, and a woolen vest.
"Go on," was the curt order.
The buckskin shirt came off, and the thick Arctic undergarment. He stood, bare to the middle against the cutting breeze, shaking from both cold and fright.
"Now," said Anderson, nodding to the stout man with the whip, before he stepped back among the gaping people.
The man tied Morris to the post by his wrists, took up a position four feet from the prisoner, and applied the whining lash.
Half a dozen times it descended, flaying the flesh, while not a sound arose from the crowd. At the seventh stroke, Morris groaned, pitched forward, and hung limply in his fetters.