Straight up to the chief the boy came, halting at the proper distance for the swing of the lash.  The whip hissed through the air, and I caught myself with a start of surprise at the weight of the blow.  The thin little leg was so very thin and little.  The flesh showed white where the lash had curled and bitten, and then, where the white had shown, sprang up the savage welt, with here and there along its length little scarlet oozings where the skin had broken.  Again the whip swung, and the boy’s whole body winced in anticipation of the blow, though he did not move from the spot.  His will held good.  A second welt sprang up, and a third.  It was not until the fourth landed that the boy screamed.  Also, he could no longer stand still, and from then on, blow after blow, he danced up and down in his anguish, screaming; but he did not attempt to run away.  If his involuntary dancing took him beyond the reach of the whip, he danced back into range again.  And when it was all over—­a dozen blows—­he went away, whimpering and squealing, among the wagons.

The chief stood still and waited.  The second boy came out from the trees.  But he did not come straight.  He came like a cringing dog, obsessed by little panics that made him turn and dart away for half a dozen steps.  But always he turned and came back, circling nearer and nearer to the man, whimpering, making inarticulate animal-noises in his throat.  I saw that he never looked at the man.  His eyes always were fixed upon the whip, and in his eyes was a terror that made me sick—­the frantic terror of an inconceivably maltreated child.  I have seen strong men dropping right and left out of battle and squirming in their death-throes, I have seen them by scores blown into the air by bursting shells and their bodies torn asunder; believe me, the witnessing was as merrymaking and laughter and song to me in comparison with the way the sight of that poor child affected me.

The whipping began.  The whipping of the first boy was as play compared with this one.  In no time the blood was running down his thin little legs.  He danced and squirmed and doubled up till it seemed almost that he was some grotesque marionette operated by strings.  I say “seemed,” for his screaming gave the lie to the seeming and stamped it with reality.  His shrieks were shrill and piercing; within them no hoarse notes, but only the thin sexlessness of the voice of a child.  The time came when the boy could stand it no more.  Reason fled, and he tried to run away.  But now the man followed up, curbing his flight, herding him with blows back always into the open space.

Then came interruption.  I heard a wild smothered cry.  The woman who sat in the wagon seat had got out and was running to interfere.  She sprang between the man and boy.

“You want some, eh?” said he with the whip.  “All right, then.”

He swung the whip upon her.  Her skirts were long, so he did not try for her legs.  He drove the lash for her face, which she shielded as best she could with her hands and forearms, drooping her head forward between her lean shoulders, and on the lean shoulders and arms receiving the blows.  Heroic mother!  She knew just what she was doing.  The boy, still shrieking, was making his get-away to the wagons.