Phil turned his face away. He saw as through a red mist the throngs of curious natives who had quickly gathered to see their enemy slowly murdered before their eyes.
Espinosa gave a guttural order and immediately Phil was seized and forced to gaze at the revolting torture of his companion.
“We shall not kill him yet,” Espinosa said, while he smiled in keen delight at the discomfited midshipman. “I have promised my men a field day. We have many amusing ways of treating our guests,—but,” he added, “before your turn comes I wish some information which I know you can give.
“Where is General Wilson?” he asked anxiously, “and is it true that your gunboat is in the river?”
“Where are your scouts?” Phil exclaimed haughtily. “Ask them, not your prisoner.”
“I choose to ask my prisoner,” the native retorted with a meaning glance at those who held Phil’s head turned so that he must see out of the tail of his eyes the cruel suffering of O’Neil.
“Your prisoner does not choose to answer,” the lad declared stoutly.
The next second Phil was jerked suddenly upon his back, and his hands and feet hauled out, spread eagle fashion to stakes driven in the solid ground. He was quite helpless, and the pain in his arms and legs was excruciating. He opened his mouth to cry out when quickly a wedge of hard wood was inserted, holding his jaws wide apart.
He closed his eyes and stiffened his muscle in a supreme endeavor to withstand the pain and prevent himself showing his suffering to the delighted natives.
“Now maybe you will consider your answer—Colonel Salas, a little water may loosen his tongue,” he heard the cruel voice of Espinosa say.