The man addressed as Kosloff, a big double-jointed man with a mean countenance, seized a cat-o’-nine-tails, and began to whip Epworth unmercifully on his back, each stroke cutting into the flesh and leaving strips of red. Notwithstanding the fact that the pain was excruciating Epworth clenched his teeth, and uttered not a sound.
“One, two, three, four, five, and fifteen,” roared the giant with pleasure. “Make him howl if it takes two hundred. He’s a husky lad and can stand a lot.”
“Hold! One more stroke and I’ll blow you to bits!”
Epworth twisted his head. He first caught a view of Joan with her face buried in her hands, weeping hysterically; then his eyes flashed to the rope, and he saw Billy standing inside with a gun frowning at Kosloff. With a sudden dash he had grabbed a gun from one of the guards and had covered the whipper before he could be stopped.
Kosloff stopped, and turned white. There was a note in the small American’s voice that brooked no rebellion, and the gun pointed menacingly.
“Go on,” Toplinsky snarled, “until I shout stop.”
“Let him have it, Billy,” twenty American throats shouted in unison. “We are with you. Plug him between the eyes.”
“One more slash and he gets it,” Billy declared. “Go on, Kosloff, if you have made your peace with God.”
“I’ll put you on bread and water,” Toplinsky threatened.
Kosloff held his whip undecidedly, and Billy stepped swiftly across the intervening space and jabbed the gun against Toplinsky’s head.