"Jove! the boy has grit," mutters Colonel Lionel, unable to restrain his admiration, even for a rival in love.
As if overcome with the sensation of inflicting such pain, the blacksmith shudders and draws back.
"Again, it is not near enough," cries John Craig.
The blacksmith shakes his head.
"I cannot," he says, in English.
"My life may depend on it, man. This is no time for hesitation. Give me the iron!"
His words are spoken with authority, and the brawny smith surrenders the rod of glowing iron.
Without an instant's hesitation, only compressing his lips firmly together, the Chicagoan presses the red-hot iron upon his arm.
Then he tosses the hissing thing aside, and begins to draw his shirt over the raw red scar an inch square, which the merciless brand has seared upon his white arm.
Seeing the blanched face of Lady Ruth, and the anxious countenances of the others near-by, the doctor, who has recovered from the shock, smiles in a reassuring way.