"They deserved it," said Samson, sullenly, "for what they had done
before. I could not strike the little man. I should have killed him."

"Silence!" cried the officer. "You must not answer me like that."

"I shall answer you as I like," said Samson, doggedly.

The officer sprang to his feet, with a lithe rattan cane in his hand,
and struck the insubordinate soldier twice across the face, each time
raising an angry red mark.

Before the guards had time to interfere, Samson sprang upon the
officer, lifted him like a child above his head, and dashed him with a
sickening crash to the ground, where he lay motionless.

A cry of horror went up from every one present.

"I have had enough," cried Samson, turning to go, but he was met by a
bristling hedge of steel. He was like a rat in a trap. He stood
defiantly there, a man maddened by oppression, and glared around
helplessly.

Whatever might have been his punishment for striking his comrades,
there was no doubt now about his fate. The guard-house was a rude hut
of logs situated on the banks of the roaring stream. Into this room
Samson was flung, bound hand and foot, to await the court-martial next
day. The shattered officer, whose sword had broken in pieces under him,
slowly revived and was carried to his quarters. A sentry marched up and
down all night before the guard-house.