preparations that were being made.

She heard her father's harshly-voiced commands. She saw them literally
tear the clothes from the unfortunate secretary's back, and lash
him--naked to the waist--to the pump that stood by the horse-trough at
the far end of the yard. His body was now hidden from her sight, but his
head appeared surmounting the pillar of the pump, his chin seeming to
rest upon its summit, and his face was towards her. At his side stood a
powerful knave armed with a stout, leather-thonged whip.

"How many strokes, Monseigneur?" she heard the man inquire.

"How many?" echoed the Marquise. "Do I know how many it will take to
make an end of him? Beat him to death, man. Allons! Set about it."

She saw the man uncoil his lash and step forward. In that instant
Caron's eyes were raised, and they met hers across the intervening
space. He smiled a valedictory smile that seemed to make her heart stand
still. She and her mother were now the only women on the balcony.
The others had made haste to withdraw as soon as La Boulaye had
been pilloried. The Marquise remained because she seemed to find
entertainment in the spectacle. Suzanne remained because horror rooted
her to the spot--horror and a great pity for this unfortunate who had
looked so strong and brave that morning, when he had had the audacity to
tell her that he loved her.

The lash sang through the air, quivered, hummed, and cut with a
sickening crackle into the young man's flesh.

The hideous sound roused her. She shuddered from head to foot, and
turning she put her hands to her face and rushed within, followed by the
Marquise's derisive laughter.

"Mon Dieu! It is horrible! Horrible!" she cried as she sank into the
nearest chair, and clapped her hands to her ears. But she could not shut
it out. Still she heard the humming of the whip and the cruel sound of
the falling blows. Mechanically she counted them, unconsciously almost,
and at twenty she heard them cease. Was it over? Was he dead, this poor
unfortunate? Moved by a curiosity that was greater than her loathing,
she rose and went to the threshold of the balcony.

"Is it ended?" she asked.

"Ended?" echoed Monsieur de Jacquelin, with a shrug. "It is scarce
begun, it seems. The executioner is pausing for breath, that is all. The
fellow has not uttered a sound. He is as obstinate as a mule."

"As enduring as a Spartan," more generously put in the Vicomte, her
brother. "Look at him, Suzanne."