"Ho! Not subdued yet, eh? You need another flogging."

"Curse you and all that is yours," roared the maddened slave. "May
you know the misery you have put upon me. May you rot for a
million years in hell." The whip was rising and falling now, for
Esteban had lost what little self-control the liquor had left to
him. "May your children's bodies grow filthy with disease; may
they starve; may they--"

Sebastian was yelling, though his voice was hoarse with pain. The
lash drew blood with every blow. Meanwhile, he wrenched and tugged
at his bonds with the fury of a maniac.

"Pablo! Your machete, quick!" panted the slave-owner. "God's
blood! I'll make an end of this black fiend, once for all."

Esteban Varona's guests had looked on at the scene with the same
mild interest they would display at the whipping of a balky horse:
and, now that the animal threatened to become dangerous, it was in
their view quite the proper thing to put it out of the way. Don
Pablo Peza stepped toward his mare to draw the machete from its
scabbard. But he did not hand it to his friend. He heard a shout,
and turned in time to see a wonderful and a terrible thing.

Sebastian had braced his naked feet against the wall; he had bowed
his back and bent his massive shoulders--a back and a pair of
shoulders that looked as bony and muscular as those of an ox--and
he was heaving with every ounce of strength in his enormous body.
As Pablo stared he saw the heavy grating come away from its