With this he advances upon John Craig, who has laid his arm, bared
almost to the shoulder, upon a high window ledge.

Then the iron just touches the flesh, and a little gust of white smoke
puffs up.

"Jove! the boy has grit," mutters Colonel Lionel, unable to restrain his
admiration, even for a rival in love.

As if overcome with the sensation of inflicting such pain, the blacksmith
shudders and draws back.

"Again, it is not near enough," cries John Craig.

The blacksmith shakes his head.

"I cannot," he says, in English.

"My life may depend on it, man. This is no time for hesitation. Give me
the iron!"

His words are spoken with authority, and the brawny smith surrenders the
rod of glowing iron.

Without an instant's hesitation, only compressing his lips firmly
together, the Chicagoan presses the red-hot iron upon his arm.

Then he tosses the hissing thing aside, and begins to draw his shirt
over the raw red scar an inch square, which the merciless brand has