There was a craning to see what the basket held, and then came a quick drawing of the breath and afterward a hiss as the truth dawned on those of quick perception.
Picking up a rope-end, I stood facing the crowd in silence until perfect stillness had come. Then I went to Lenardo, the first in line, and said to the guard:
“Are any of you experienced in tying a man’s hands?”
A head-shake was the response of each.
“Then observe how this is done,” I said. And to Lenardo, “Turn your back and cross your wrists behind you.”
All the blood fled his face. He glanced about with a shamed, beseeching helplessness, his eyes wide with horror and his look an appeal for protection from the outrage.
“Turn, and cross your wrists,” came my command as evenly as before.
The prisoner obeyed, his hands trembling.
“Cross your wrists.” My tone was such as a farrier might use to a horse he was shoeing.
Lenardo crossed them.