After a time Don Esteban cried: "That will do, Cueto! Leave him
now for the flies to punish. They will remind him of his
insolence."

Then the guests departed, and Esteban staggered into the house and
went to bed.

All that morning Sebastian stood with his hands chained high over
his head. The sun grew hotter and ever hotter upon his lacerated
back: the blood dried and clotted there; a cloud of flies
gathered, swarming over the raw gashes left by Cueto's whip.

Before leaving for Don Pablo's quinta Evangelina came to bid her
father an agonized farewell, and for a long time after she had
gone the old man stood motionless, senseless, scarcely breathing.
Nor did the other slaves venture to approach him to offer sympathy
or succor. They passed with heads averted and with fear in their
hearts.

Since Don Esteban's nerves, or perhaps it was his conscience, did
not permit him to sleep, he arose about noon-time and dressed
himself. He was still drunk, and the mad rage of the early morning
still possessed him; therefore, when he mounted his horse he
pretended not to see the figure chained to the window-grating.
Sebastian's affection for his master was doglike and he had taken
his punishment as a dog takes his, more in surprise than in anger,
but at this proof of callous indifference a fire kindled in the
old fellow's breast, hotter by far than the fever from his fly-
blown scores. He was thirsty, too, but that was the least of his
sufferings.