“Oh, I say, Cobden—have you seen a ghost?”
It was Langoyer, one of the young English officers, who spoke. He was leaning upon his cane, to flick a cigarette stub off the court with his boot. Langoyer paid no attention to the flogging. The men attended to that, you know. One had to stand by—as one would wait for his horse to drink.
Dicky was now being lashed to the quick himself. He had seen clearly—but a sort of hideous night had settled upon him again. He had to watch his temper.
“How many does this man get, Langoyer?” he managed to ask.
“Thirty.”
“What for?”
“He knows more of the sedition of Kitchlew and Satyapal than he’ll tell.”
The figure had gone limp on the triangle.
“Fainted,” gasped Richard Cobden.
The whipping stopped. A tin bucket of water was brought and dashed upon Nagar’s face and shoulders. A moan came from him because he was not quite conscious. Then the knees drew up and his feet felt for the ground.