“Observe,” I repeated to the guards, as I quickly wound the cord and knotted it.
Hobart watched the proceeding narrowly, his face growing more livid, his eyes bulging farther, his breathing uneven. Once he sent a flaming glance at Mr. Vancouver, who winced under it, and sat with a sickly, shrunken look. I knew that the supreme test of discipline lay ahead, and I was warming to the situation.
“Tie the next one,” I said to two of the guards, handing them a strip. At the same time, no longer able to resist a glance at Beelo, I found in his stricken face so strange a look that it disconcerted me for a moment. It looked to be both horror and appeal. But my duty was plain.
I stood by and observed the clumsy work of the two guards in tying the second man, who, meeker than Lenardo,—although both were manly fellows,—submitted more promptly.
Hobart’s turn came next. He was looking about as a trapped beast, and he swayed and muttered. It was clear that under the approaching degradation he was letting his wits tangle.
Some women, sickened by the scene, and fearing a tragedy from Hobart, slipped away, a few softly crying, others very white. They hid in a huddle behind the storehouse, the mothers taking their children.
“One more turn. Tighter. Work faster,” I ordered the guards tying the second man.
They obeyed with nervous eagerness.
Then came Hobart’s turn. I stood before him. He knew what to do without my order, and I was silent.
“Haven’t we any friends among you people?” he bellowed, stepping back and hardening every muscle. “Are you all cowards, to let these brutes ride roughshod over you?”