How many tests he applied Tom scarcely knew; but he saw that this man was master of all the arts of secret penmanship, and that no matter would have been kept from him had it been intrusted to the paper.

At last Sir James became satisfied of this himself.  The veins on his forehead swelled with anger.  He saw that he had been tricked, and his fury was hotly aroused.

Smiting his great hand upon the table, he cried in a voice of thunder: 

“This despatch is a trick and a fraud.  There is nothing but a sheet of blank paper.  Men do not risk their lives in carrying dummy packets.

“Where is the true despatch, knave?  Out with it, or ’twill he the worse for you!”

“That is all I have,” answered Tom quietly; “I know nothing of any other.  Search me if you will.  You will find naught else.”

“Search him! search him well!” said Sir James to his servants, almost panting in his ire.  “The knave was never sent to the Duke with nothing hut this in his keeping.  Find it instantly!  I love not these delays!”

Instantly Tom was laid on his back upon the floor, and such a search was made of his dress and person as was a matter of curiosity and amaze to himself.  Even his nose and ears and mouth were explored by rough fingers, in a fashion none too gentle; whilst his clothing was well-nigh ripped to pieces, and he wondered how he should ever make it fit for wear again.  Certainly if he had had any missive to carry it would not have escaped the scrutiny of his captors, and their oaths and kicks bespoke their baffled disappointment.

“Then he has messages intrusted to him,” said Montacute, first in French, and then in English.  “Set the fellow upon his feet, and bind fast his hands to yon rafter.  If he will not speak the truth, it shall he flogged out of him!”

The swarthy man was growing very angry at his failure.  He may have begun to suspect that he had been duped by a wit keener than his own, and the thought raised within him the demon of cruelty and lust of blood.  He hated Lord Claud with a deadly hatred, having been worsted by him in encounters of many kinds.  If unable to wreak his vengeance upon the man himself, to do so upon his follower was the next best thing.

“Tell me with what messages to the Duke of Savoy you are charged!” he cried, standing before Tom with flaming eyes.  “You are not sent upon this quest with neither letter nor word.  Speak, or you shall be made to find your tongue!”

“I will speak as much as you like,” answered Tom, with haughty disdain in his tone, though his flesh crept at the sight of the men knotting the ends of rope in their hands; “but I am charged with no message.  I know nothing of what you would wish to know.  You can flog till you are weary, but you can’t get out of me what I do not know.  That at least is one satisfaction.”

Montacute waved his hand.  The next moment the ropes descended upon Tom’s bare back.  He set his teeth, and made no cry, though the blood came surging to his head, and the room seemed to swim in blood.  Again and again they descended; but the keen pain awoke within Tom that ferocity of strength which comes to men in their extremity, so that, like Samson, they can turn the tables upon their foes.