As I thought and wondered, four soldiers were brought
in, and the men were made ready for the lash. In vain they pleaded
they would tell their story at once. Doltaire would not listen; the
whipping first, and their story after. Soon their backs were bared,
their faces were turned to the wall, and, as Gabord with harsh
voice counted, the lashes were mercilessly laid on. There was a
horrible fascination in watching the skin corrugate under the
lashes, rippling away in red and purple blotches, the grooves in
the flesh crossing and recrossing, the raw misery spreading from
the hips to the shoulders. Now and again Doltaire drew out a box
and took a pinch of snuff, and once, coolly and curiously, he
walked up to the most stalwart prisoner and felt his pulse, then
to the weakest, whose limbs and body had stiffened as though dead.
"Ninety-seven! Ninety-eight! Ninety-nine!" growled Gabord, and
then came Doltaire's voice:
"Stop! Now fetch some brandy."
The prisoners were loosened, and Doltaire spoke sharply to a
soldier who was roughly pulling one man's shirt over the excoriated
back. Brandy was given by Gabord, and the prisoners stood, a most
pitiful sight, the weakest livid.
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