The thick cow-hide whips whistled through the air and descended on his bare, quivering shoulders, and he nearly bit his lips through to restrain the cry that the infliction almost drew from him.  But he was resolved that his foe should not have the satisfaction of extorting from him any outward sign of suffering save the convulsive writhings which no effort of his own could restrain.  How many times the cruel whips whistled through the air and descended on his back, he never knew—­it seemed like an eternity to him; but at last he heard a voice say: 

“Hold, men!

“Dowsett, you will kill him before the Chief sees him, and that he will not thank you for.  He is a fine fellow, and I won’t stand by and see him killed outright.  Take him down and lock him up safely till the Chief returns.  He will say what is to be done with him next.  It is not for us to take law into our own hands beyond a certain point.  You will get nothing out of him, that is plain; he is past speech now.”

“The Chief will make him find his tongue,” said Dowsett with a cruel sneer; “this is only a foretaste of what he will get when the Fire Eater returns.

“Take him down then, men.  ’Twere a pity to kill him too soon.  Keep him safe, and we will see what the Chief says to him tomorrow.”

Paul heard this as in a dream, although a merciful semi-consciousness had deadened him to the worst of the pain.  He felt himself unbound and carried roughly along down some dark passage, as he fancied.  There was a grating noise, as if a door had turned on its hinges, and then he was flung down on what seemed like a heap of straw, and left alone in pitchy darkness.

For a time he lay just as he had been thrown, in the same trance of semi-consciousness; but after what had appeared to him a very long time, he beheld as if a long way off a glimmering light, which approached nearer and nearer, though he was too dizzy and faint to heed its movements much.  But it certainly approached quite close to him—­he saw as much through his half-closed eyelids—­and then a voice addressed him, a soft, sweet voice, strangely unlike those he had just been hearing.

“Are you indeed Paul Stukely?” asked the voice.

The sound of his name aroused him, and he made a great effort to see through the mists that seemed to hang over his eyes.  A sweet and very lovely face was hanging over him.  He thought he must be dreaming, and he asked faintly, hardly knowing what he said: 

“Is it an angel?”

“Oh no, I am no angel, but only the daughter of the Chief; and I want to help you, because I have heard of you before, and I cannot bear that they should kill you by inches, as I know they will do if you stay here.  See, they are all fast asleep now, and there is no chance of my father’s return tonight.  I have brought you your clothes, and Madge has given me some rag steeped in a concoction of herbs of her own making, which will wonderfully ease your wounds if you will let me lay it on them.  Old Madge is a wonderful leech, and she cannot bear their cruel doings any more than I can, and she said you were a brave lad, and she made you some soup, which I will fetch for you to hearten you up for your journey.  For you must get away from here before morning, or nothing can save you from a terrible fate.