He put the
light down on the heap of dung in the corner, and quietly introduced his
hand under his coat-tails, and drew slowly from his pocket the end of a
rope, which he concealed behind him.

"I'm very sorry, exceedingly sorry, Waldo, my lad, that you should have
acted in this manner. It grieves me," said Bonaparte.

He moved round toward the boy's back. He hardly liked the look in the
fellow's eyes, though he stood there motionless. If he should spring on
him!

So he drew the rope out very carefully, and shifted round to the wooden
post. There was a slipknot in one end of the rope, and a sudden movement
drew the boy's hands to his back and passed it round them. It was an
instant's work to drag it twice round the wooden post: then Bonaparte
was safe.

For a moment the boy struggled to free himself; then he knew that he was
powerless, and stood still.

"Horses that kick must have their legs tied," said Bonaparte, as he
passed the other end of the rope round the boy's knees. "And now, my
dear Waldo," taking the whip out of his pocket, "I am going to beat
you."

He paused for a moment. It was perfectly quiet; they could hear each
other's breath.

"'Chasten thy son while there is hope,'" said Bonaparte, "'and let not
thy soul spare for his crying.' Those are God's words. I shall act as a
father to you, Waldo. I think we had better have your naked back."

He took out his penknife, and slit the shirt down from the shoulder to
the waist.

"Now," said Bonaparte, "I hope the Lord will bless and sanctify to you
what I am going to do to you."

The first cut ran from the shoulder across the middle of the back; the
second fell exactly in the same place. A shudder passed through the
boy's frame.

"Nice, eh?" said Bonaparte, peeping round into his face, speaking with a
lisp, as though to a very little child. "Nith, eh?"

But the eyes were black and lustreless, and seemed not to see him. When
he had given sixteen Bonaparte paused in his work to wipe a little drop
of blood from his whip.

"Cold, eh? What makes you shiver so? Perhaps you would like to pull up
your shirt? But I've not quite done yet."

When he had finished he wiped the whip again, and put it back in his
pocket. He cut the rope through with his penknife, and then took up the
light.

"You don't seem to have found your tongue yet. Forgotten how to cry?"
said Bonaparte, patting him on the cheek.

The boy looked up at him--not sullenly, not angrily. T