choked by emotion. "She is unburied. I appeal to your kind heart to let
us go and bury her. We will be your servants for life. You wish money.
Good! We will find it for you. I will work, I will steal, I will kill
for this money you wish--I swear it. But old Julien, he is dying there
on the rope--"

Floreal raised his tortured eyes to the black face above him, then his
babbling tongue fell silent and he rose, interposing his body between
Pierrine and the colonel. It was evident that the latter had heard
nothing whatever of the appeal, for he was still staring at the girl.

Floreal strained until the rawhide thongs cut into his wrists, his bare,
yellow toes gripping the hard earth like the claws of a cat until he
seemed about to spring. Once he turned his head, curiously, fearfully,
toward his young wife, then his blazing glance swung back to his captor.

The silence roused Laguerre finally, and he rose. "Speak the truth," he
commanded, roughly, "otherwise you shall see your father dance a
bamboula while my soldiers drum on his ribs with the cocomacaque."

"He is feeble; his bones are brittle," said the son, thickly.

"As for you, my little Pierrine, you will come to my house; then, if
these wicked men refuse to speak, perhaps you and I will reach an
understanding." Laguerre grinned evilly.

"Monsieur--!" With a furious curse Floreal flung himself in the path of
the black man; the wife retreated in speechless dismay.

Petithomme thrust young Rameau aside, crying, angrily: "You wish to
live, eh? Well, then, the truth. Otherwise--"

"But--she? Pierrine?" panted Floreal, with a twist of his head in her
direction.

"I may allow her to go free. Who can tell?" He led the girl out across
the moonlit clearing and to the largest house in the group. He
reappeared, making the door fast behind him, and returned, stretching
himself in the hammock once more.

"Now, Congo," he ordered, "let us see who will speak first." Taking a
pipe from his pocket, he filled it with the rank native tobacco and
lighted it. The tirailleur he had addressed selected a four-foot club of
the jointed cocomacaque wood, such as is used by the local police, and
with it smote the suspended figure heavily. Old Julien groaned, his son
cried out. The brutality proceeded with deliberation, the body of old
Julien swung drunkenly, spinning, swaying, writhing in the moonlight.

Floreal shrank away. Retreating until his back was against the table, he
clutche