triangle; his wrists, bound
above his head, at the apex. His body was then extended to its fullest
length, and his white back shone in the sunlight. During his tying up he
had said nothing--only when Troke pulled off his shirt he shivered.

"Now, prisoner," said Troke to Dawes, "do your duty."

Rufus Dawes looked from the three stern faces to Kirkland's white back,
and his face grew purple. In all his experience he had never been asked
to flog before. He had been flogged often enough.

"You don't want me to flog him, sir?" he said to the Commandant.

"Pick up the cat, sir!" said Burgess, astonished; "what is the meaning
of this?" Rufus Dawes picked up the heavy cat, and drew its knotted
lashes between his fingers.

"Go on, Dawes," whispered Kirkland, without turning his head. "You are
no more than another man."

"What does he say?" asked Burgess.

"Telling him to cut light, sir," said Troke, eagerly lying; "they all
do it." "Cut light, eh! We'll see about that. Get on, my man, and look
sharp, or I'll tie you up and give you fifty for yourself, as sure as
God made little apples."

"Go on, Dawes," whispered Kirkland again. "I don't mind."

Rufus Dawes lifted the cat, swung it round his head, and brought its
knotted cords down upon the white back.

"Wonn!" cried Troke.

The white back was instantly striped with six crimson bars. Kirkland
stifled a cry. It seemed to him that he had been cut in half.

"Now then, you scoundrel!" roared Burgess; "separate your cats! What do
you mean by flogging a man that fashion?"

Rufus Dawes drew his crooked fingers through the entangled cords, and
struck again. This time the blow was more effective, and the blood
beaded on the skin.

The boy did not cry; but Macklewain saw his hands clutch the staves
tightly, and the muscles of his naked arms quiver.

"Tew!"

"That's better," said Burgess.

The third blow sounded as though it had been struck upon a piece of raw
beef, and the crimson turned purple.

"My God!" said Kirkland, faintly, and bit his lips.

The flogging proceeded in silence for ten strikes, and then Kirkland
gave a screech like a wounded horse.

"Oh!...Captain Burgess!...Dawes!...Mr. Troke!...Oh, my God!... Oh!
oh!...Mercy!...Oh, Doctor!...Mr. North!...Oh! Oh! Oh!"

"Ten!" cried Troke, impassively counting to the end of the first twenty.

The lad's back, swollen into a lump, now presented the appearance of a
ripe peach which a wilful child had scored w