“Stretched face downwards was the form of a woman, whose wrists and ankles were bound tightly to an inclined wooden frame. Her back was covered with blood, the flesh having been cut into strips by the thongs of the terrible knout, which, wielded by a brawny brutal servant of my father’s, was falling with monotonous regularity upon the victim. The Count, with folded arms, stood near, watching the torture with undisguised satisfaction.
“At first I could not see the face of the unfortunate girl, but a few seconds later I recognised the colour of the hair and the distorted features. It was Natiónka!
“Rushing forward with a wild cry I flung myself upon the man who was administering the horrible punishment. I was young and athletic, and succeeded in arresting the blow that was falling, an action which was regarded with approval by the crowd of indignant but trembling serfs.
“‘You have no right here,’ cried the Count, white with rage. ‘Return to the house at once!’
“‘What is the meaning of this?’ I demanded fiercely. ‘What has she done?’
“‘It is no business of yours. The wench is insubordinate; to-morrow she starts for Siberia.’
“‘She will not. She is my wife,’ I cried.
“‘I am well aware of that,’ he answered coldly. Then, turning to the grinning brute who had been interrupted, he added, ‘Ivan, give her the death-blow.’
“I knew that if the knout fell it would prove fatal. The death-blow seldom fails to despatch the victim. Springing towards him I endeavoured to arrest the stroke.
“But too late! The heavy leaden-weighted thongs struck the insensible girl with a noise like a pistol-shot.