I take no pride in having followed his advice save in so far as it saved the boy from the scaffold. Bertrand and I, each with our two hands, gripped O'Rane's third and fourth fingers, tugged and twisted until a stifled cry of pain broke from his lips. George was shaking him like a rat, and at last the grip relaxed and Beresford's head fell with a second thud on the floor.
"Don't let go!" cried George. "Now, Raney, will you swear on your honour not to touch him again?"
There was a sullen, long silence varied by the rip of rending clothes and the clatter of feet, as O'Rane made three unsuccessful plunges forward.
"You're—hurting my—hand!" he panted at length with the whimper of a little child.
George shook his head at me passionately.
"Will you swear on your honour, Raney?"
"Let me—get at him!" O'Rane sobbed.
"We'll break your fingers off at the knuckles if you don't swear!" George returned through clenched teeth.
There was a second silence, a last plunge.
"I won't touch him," sighed O'Rane.