Hushed and open-mouthed, the spectators awaited the result of the first blow.
The executioner receded, swung the terrible torture instrument over his head, and giving it a peculiar twist, brought it down upon the victim’s back with a sound like a pistol-shot.
The cruel thongs cut their way into the flesh and the blood gushed forth. Time after time the blows fell monotonously, until the quivering flesh was beaten to a pulp, and both victim and executioner were covered with blood.
Such was the scene of fiendish brutality that met my gaze on my arrival at Mstislavl, after having traced my mother and sister from Petersburg.
I was making my way through the shouting populace when, out of mere curiosity, I glanced at the face of the unfortunate girl, and recognised her.
Was it surprising that I rushed wildly up and endeavoured to stop the horrible punishment? So suddenly did it all happen, however, that I remember very little about it, except that in my wrathful indignation I cursed the Tzar’s myrmidons, and struck in the face the inhuman Governor who attempted to throw me from the platform. Thinking that I was Mascha’s lover, and enraged at the blow, he thereupon ordered me to receive thirty lashes.
I saw them carry away the insensible, mutilated form of my poor sister. Then they tied me to the frame.
I felt the thongs cut into my back like knives. Once! Twice! Thrice! The pain became excruciating. My head reeled, and a moment later all became blank.
When I regained consciousness I found myself in the prison hospital with warders rubbing salt into my wounds. I asked after Mascha, and was informed that she was still alive, and recovering.
One morning, while exercising in the prison yard, I saw her for a few brief moments, and she told me the story I have narrated.