Henry stared for a moment, and then an expression of sheer horror crept over his face. Suddenly he threw the revolver against the wall and bowed his head to a cotton bale.
“My God, oh, my God!” he cried, his hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, his breast heaving.
Slowly Hoag lowered his uplifted hands. Silence ensued—silence broken only by the audible panting of the two men. Presently Hoag spoke.
“You started to kill me,” he gasped. “Why didn't you do it? You had the chance.”
“Oh, my God—oh, my God!” Henry exclaimed, in muffled tones. “Yes, yes, I came near it. I didn't know what I was about. You got me in a corner. You started at me. You made me mad. But I am not a murderer—bad as I am, I am not that. I saw you trying to pull the gun and forgot what I was doing.”
“Huh, you say you did?” Hoag seemed unable to formulate anything else. “You say you did?” Suddenly stepping aside, Henry picked up the rope his father had held a moment before. Hoag stared helplessly as he came toward him with it extended in his hands.
“Take it!” Henry gulped.
“What for?” Hoag asked, wonderingly.
“I want you to whip me,” Henry replied, huskily. “I'll stand here and let you lay it on till you are tired. You'll never give me enough to satisfy me. I need it and I want it. You have every right to give it to me, and I want it done.”
Unconscious of what he was doing, Hoag accepted the rope, allowing it to hang loosely from his inert fingers. There was another silence. Henry had turned his back and bent his shoulders over the cotton bale.