As long as full sensibility remained, Jeremy Pitt had made no sound.
But in a measure as from pain his senses were mercifully dulled, he
sank forward in the stocks, and hung there now in a huddled heap,
faintly moaning.

Colonel Bishop set his foot upon the crossbar, and leaned over his
victim, a cruel smile on his full, coarse face.

"Let that teach you a proper submission," said he. "And now touching
that shy friend of yours, you shall stay here without meat or drink
- without meat or drink, d' ye hear me? - until you please to tell
me his name and business." He took his foot from the bar. "When
you've had enough of this, send me word, and we'll have the
branding-irons to you."

On that he swung on his heel, and strode out of the stockade, his
negroes following.

Pitt had heard him, as we hear things in our dreams. At the moment
so spent was he by his cruel punishment, and so deep was the despair
into which he had fallen, that he no longer cared whether he lived
or died.

Soon, however, from the partial stupor which pain had mercifully
induced, a new variety of pain aroused him. The stocks stood in the
open under the full glare of the tropical sun, and its blistering
rays streamed down upon that mangled, bleeding back until he felt
as if flames of fire were searing it. And, soon, to this was added
a torment still more unspeakable. Flies, the cruel flies of the