Six guards ran into the arena with a folding cot, and stretched Toplinsky out comfortably on it. He groaned miserably, lay silent for several moments, and then lifted his head on his elbow. In this attitude he gazed threateningly at Epworth for several seconds without speaking, his light blue eyes twinkling viciously.

“The woman is free,” he at last shrilled out. “I, the great Herman Toplinsky have said, and it is so. But for him—that is another thing. I have it. He has dodged about like a jack-in-the-box, he has run away from me and would not fight where I could reach him with these strong arms, he has pounded me in the softest parts of my anatomy when I could not catch him. For that, ah, ha, he shall be whipped—whipped until his back streams blood and he shouts aloud with pain, until his head falls forward in a faint. Strap him up. I have said.”

With a deep groan he dropped back on the cot, lay on his back, for several seconds, and then turned over so that he could view the whipping.

“Oh, my! Oh, my! my stomach,” he half sobbed.

“How it hurts. Strap the rascal where I can see him wither and suffer. I say that he shall suffer as I suffer.”

The six men jerked Epworth to a post in front of the giant and lashed him face to the post, pulling down his tights so that his back was exposed.

“Ah, ha, his back is smooth and white. I shall make it red and striped, and then pour salt on it. Proceed, Kosloff, good comrade, and spare not the rod.”

The man addressed as Kosloff, a big double-jointed man with a mean countenance, seized a cat-o’-nine-tails, and began to whip Epworth unmercifully on his back, each stroke cutting into the flesh and leaving strips of red. Notwithstanding the fact that the pain was excruciating Epworth clenched his teeth, and uttered not a sound.

“One, two, three, four, five, and fifteen,” roared the giant with pleasure. “Make him howl if it takes two hundred. He’s a husky lad and can stand a lot.”

“Hold! One more stroke and I’ll blow you to bits!”

Epworth twisted his head. He first caught a view of Joan with her face buried in her hands, weeping hysterically; then his eyes flashed to the rope, and he saw Billy standing inside with a gun frowning at Kosloff. With a sudden dash he had grabbed a gun from one of the guards and had covered the whipper before he could be stopped.

Kosloff stopped, and turned white. There was a note in the small American’s voice that brooked no rebellion, and the gun pointed menacingly.

“Go on,” Toplinsky snarled, “until I shout stop.”

“Let him have it, Billy,” twenty American throats shouted in unison. “We are with you. Plug him between the eyes.”

“One more slash and he gets it,” Billy declared. “Go on, Kosloff, if you have made your peace with God.”

“I’ll put you on bread and water,” Toplinsky threatened.

Kosloff held his whip undecidedly, and Billy stepped swiftly across the intervening space and jabbed the gun against Toplinsky’s head.

“You’ve got nerve, Toplinsky,” he said with grudging admiration, “but you are too healthy to be in a hurry to die, and I’m telling you that you are mighty near death at this moment. I have been thinking mean about you for the last hour and a half, and there is now going to be a reckoning between us.”

Toplinsky, whose strength was coming back, sat up.

“Ah, ha, slave, do you talk of an agreement with your master?”

“Say, Whiskers, if you think I’m a slave you’ve got another think coming. Right now you have a lot of men behind you but I’m holding the trump card. If you do not come to my terms, and agree quickly, this gun is going off. After that—well, you will not be interested in what happens next.”

The grimness in the young aviator’s voice spoke volumes. The vast crowd listened in silence.

“Yes,” he continued, “you are going to give an order that sticks. You are going to say that there will be no more whippings in this camp.”

“What else?” Toplinsky sneered.

“And no killings.”

Toplinsky made an effort to stand up.

“Sit down!” Billy thundered. “This agreement is going to reach a conclusion before you get up.”

“I will agree that there will be no more whippings,” Toplinsky said quietly, “provided the work is done industriously. But the guards will shoot the first American who makes a break for liberty. I have said.”

“I will not be unreasonable,” Billy returned slowly. “We will not ask for freedom at this time but we must have fair treatment.”

“I will go no further than modify the regulations concerning whippings,” Toplinsky declared firmly. “What I have said I have said. Turn your gun over to one of the guards.”

With a sarcastic bow Billy obeyed. The act surprised Joan. She thought that Billy had the advantage, and should force their release. But Billy had saved Epworth from death, and Epworth and all the Americans were well pleased with the result.

“Arrest that man!” Toplinsky screamed the moment Billy was disarmed. “Put them together in the stocks and throw mud at them.” When they were bound together and their feet thrust through an old-fashioned stock that was dragged out, Toplinsky added slyly: “It may be puritanical but I imagine that by the time my babies get through playing with you, whippings will appear somewhat less painful.”

The mud was full of small sharp gravel and when it began to strike their faces it left red smears. When Joan saw this she sprang off the table, ran across the open space to where the two boys were fastened, and threw herself in front of them as a protection from the gravel.

“Drag the wench back to her room,” Toplinsky called out with a loud, shrill laugh, “and hold her there in the window where she can see without being able to interfere.”

Epworth and Billy were finally taken out of the stocks in an unconscious condition.