oked maimed and
bruised.

"Put on your shirt!" commanded the tyrant.

Phil drew it on over his bleeding back and resumed his place among his
comrades.

"Now!" said the padrone, beckoning to Giacomo.

The little boy approached shivering, not so much with cold as with the
fever that had already begun to prey upon him.

Phil turned pale and sick as he looked at the padrone preparing to
inflict punishment. He would gladly have left the room, but he knew that
it would not be permitted.

The first blow descended heavily upon the shrinking form of the little
victim. It was followed by a shriek of pain and terror.

"What are you howling at?" muttered the padrone, between his teeth. "I
will whip you the harder."

Giacomo would have been less able to bear the cruel punishment than Phil
if he had been well, but being sick, it was all the more terrible to
him. The second blow likewise was followed by a shriek of anguish. Phil
looked on with pale face, set teeth, and blazing eyes, as he saw the
barbarous punishment of his comrade. He felt that he hated the padrone
with a fierce hatred. Had his strength been equal to the attempt, he
would have flung himself upon the padrone. As it was, he looked at his
comrades, half wishing that they would combine with him against their
joint oppressor. But there was no hope of that. Some congratulated
themselves that they were not in Giacomo's place; others looked upon his
punishment as a matter of course. There was no dream of interference,
save in the mind of Phil.

The punishment continued amid the groans and prayers for mercy of the
little sufferer. But at the eighth stroke his pain and terror reached
a climax, and nature succumbed. He sank on the floor, fainting. The
padrone thought at first it was a pretense, and was about to repeat
the strokes, when a look at the pallid, colorless face of the little
sufferer alarmed him. It did not excite his compassion, but kindled
the fear that the boy might be dying, in which case the police might
interfere and give him trouble; therefore he desisted, but unwillingly.

"He is sick," said Phil, starting forward.

"He is no more sick than I am," scowled the padrone. "Pietro, some
water!"

Pietro brought a glass of water, which the padrone threw in the face of
the fallen boy. The shock brought him partially to. He opened his eyes,
and looked around vacantly.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded the padrone, harshly.

"Where am I?" aske