arefully of the blade;
yes, it was, sharp as a razor, and would do the work wanted of it. He
grasped it nervously, but firmly, in his right hand. Then he paused. Was
it, after all, worth the pain he must suffer; had life anything in store
for him in recompense for what he must endure? He could not expect to be
again a power among his brethren. At the best he would be the mere wreck
of what he had, till now, been to his followers. They might look to him
for counsel and advice: as a leader he could be of no more use. Again,
admitting he had the courage to do the deed, could his strength hold out
until he reached a place of safety? Suppose he fell helpless on the way;
he would be found and brought back. Yet to do nothing was to receive
certain death, or what, to Pomponio, with his Indian pride, was worse,
a public whipping, such as he had heard was given sometimes for grave
offenses; and afterward such humiliation in his life of bondage as was
not to be borne. No, anything to free himself out of the hands of his
persecutors. He hesitated no longer.

Clutching the knife, he stooped. Taking firm hold of his foot, as it
rested on the ground, with his left hand, he poised the edge of the
knife on his heel, back of the iron ring; then, with all his strength,
he gave one quick, sharp cut downward and severed the prominence of the
heel, removing the greater part of the os calcis. Not a sound passed his
lips. Letting fall the knife, he pushed the ring down over the wound and
the length of his foot. One foot was free, but only one; he was still as
much a prisoner as before. Could he bear the torture again?

He gave himself no time to think, but picking up the knife, repeated,
with convulsive strength, the operation on his other foot. With a low
moan, wrung from him by the double agony, he leaned, faint and deathly
sick, against the wall. In this position he remained for many minutes,
until, above the pain, arose the thought that he was not yet free.

The small window of the prison was within easy reach from the floor,
and it would have been the work of an instant to vault through it, had
Pomponio not been disabled by the ugly wounds he had inflicted upon
himself. With a sigh he stood up slowly on his maimed feet. Think of the
power of will of the poor Indian, his love of life, and, more than his
love of life, his hatred of his oppressors, to go through the agony each
movement caused him! He crept up to the window, laid hold of the