Hobart’s fury wore itself out. Humiliation took its turn. Toward the end came a humbled spirit and dumb pleading. A quickening ran through the crowd, and eager, appealing eyes were upon me from every direction; but I waited. From humility Hobart sank lower, for the pain of his cramped muscles grew worse and worse, making him writhe and groan and strain. Still the moment had not come. I knew that many a life hung on the precision of my conduct, and Captain Mason did not interfere to the slightest extent. At last, when Hobart’s dumb pleading had settled on my face and did not rove, I said to Dr. Preston:
“The gag—nothing else—may come away.”
He removed it, and Hobart panted:
“Thank you, Doctor. Take the others off, please.”
The physician looked to me, but I gave no sign. That started a movement in the crowd, and I had to quell that with a look.
“Let him take ‘em off, Mr. Tudor,” the prisoner begged.
I nodded, and he was free. He labored weakly to a sitting posture, Dr. Preston assisting. His head rolled, but he breathed deeply, and steadied himself. Dr. Preston felt his pulse.
“May he have water and a wet towel, sir?” he asked me.
I nodded. Hobart drank greedily. Dr. Preston mopped his head and face, and bound the wet towel over his forehead.
“Bring a seat for Hobart,” I said to a guard.