Mendoza y Linares, old Pedro Miron, the advocate, and others of
less consequence, whom Esteban had gathered from the Spanish Club.
The host dismounted and lurched across the courtyard to Sebastian.

"So, my fine fellow," he began. "Have you had enough of rebellion
by this time?"

"Why did you have him flogged?" the advocate inquired.

Esteban explained, briefly, "He dared to raise his hand in anger
against one of my guests."

Sebastian's face was working as he turned upon his master to say:
"I would be lying if I told you that I am sorry for what I did. It
is you have done wrong. Your soul is black with this crime. Where
is my girl?"

"The devil! To hear you talk one would think you were a free man."
The planter's eyes were bleared and he brandished his riding-whip
threateningly. "I do as I please with my slaves. I tolerate no
insolence. Your girl? Well, she's in the house of Salvador, Don
Pablo's cochero, where she belongs. I've warned him that he will
have to tame her unruly spirit, as I have tamed yours."

Sebastian had hung sick and limp against the grating, but at these
words he suddenly roused. It was as if a current of electricity
had galvanized him. He strained at his manacles and the bars
groaned under his weight. His eyes began to roll, his lips drew
back over his blue gums. Noting his expression of ferocity,
Esteban cut at his naked back with the riding-whip, crying: