"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."

Almost involuntarily she obeyed, and moved forward a step that she
might behold him. A face, deathly pale, she saw, which in the
sunshine glistened with the sweat of agony that bedewed it; but the
lips were tightly closed and the countenance grimly expressionless.
Even as she looked she heard her father command the man to lay on
anew. Then, as before, his eyes met hers; but this time no smile
did she see investing them.

Again the whip cracked and fell. She drew back, but his glance
seemed to haunt her even when she no longer saw his face. A sudden
resolution moved her, and in a frenzy of anger and compassion she
flung out of the room. A moment later she burst like a beautiful
virago into the courtyard.

"Stop!" she commanded shrilly, causing both her father and the
executioner to turn, and the latter pausing in his hideous work.
But a glance from the Marquis bade him resume, and resume he did,
as though there had been no interruption.

"What is this?" demanded Bellecour, half amused, half vexed, whilst
a sudden new light leapt to the eyes of La Boulaye, which but a
moment back had been so full of agony.