to my own devices. Once a day
they gave me a little goat flesh and a pannikin of water and once a week
Kara would come in and outside the radius of my chain he would open a
little camp stool and sitting down smoke his cigarette and talk. My
God! the things that man said! The things he described! The horrors he
related! And always it was Grace who was the centre of his description.
And he would relate the stories he was telling to her about myself. I
cannot describe them. They are beyond repetition."

John Lexman shuddered and closed his eyes.

"That was his weapon. He did not confront me with the torture of my
darling, he did not bring tangible evidence of her suffering--he just
sat and talked, describing with a remarkable clarity of language which
seemed incredible in a foreigner, the 'amusements' which he himself had
witnessed.

"I thought I should go mad. Twice I sprang at him and twice the chain
about my legs threw me headlong on that cruel floor. Once he brought the
jailer in to whip me, but I took the whipping with such phlegm that it
gave him no satisfaction. I told you I had seen Grace only once and this
is how it happened.

"It was after the flogging, and Kara, who was a veritable demon in his
rage, planned to have his revenge for my indifference. They brought
Grace out upon a boat and rowed the boat to where I could see it from my
window. There the whip which had been applied to me was applied to her.
I can't tell you any more about that," he said brokenly, "but I wish,
you don't know how fervently, that I had broken down and given the dog
the satisfaction he wanted. My God! It was horrible!

"When the winter came they used to take me out with chains on my legs
to gather in wood from the forest. There was no reason why I should be
given this work, but the truth was, as I discovered from Salvolio, that
Kara thought my dungeon was too warm. It was sheltered from the winds
by the hill behind and even on the coldest days and nights it was not
unbearable. Then Kara went away for some time. I think he must have gone
to England, and he came back in a white fury. One of his big plans had
gone wrong and the mental torture he inflicted upon me was more acute
than ever.

"In the old days he used to come once a week; now he came almost every
day. He usually arrived in the afternoon and I was surprised one night
to be awakened from my sleep to see him standing at the door, a lantern
in his hand, his inevitable cigar