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.
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