“But you are not thinking of yourself, are you, Roy?” he says.  “You are thinking of her, I know.  How sweet!  Sentiment was always your strong point.  Well, think hard about her, Roy, think your fill; for she is almost as near her end as you are near yours.  But not quite so near.  I intend to break that haughty spirit before I—­er—­eliminate her.  Oh, yes, it will break.  Trust me to know the sure way.  Roy, don’t you want to know what I am going to do to Mary?”

He paused a moment, and, chuckling and smacking his lips, stood looking at Newman’s bowed figure.  Then he said slowly and deliberately, actually lingering over the words.  “I am going to make a strumpet of the wench for Fitzgibbon’s pleasure!”

Newman stirred.  “Ah, that wakes you up!” cried Swope.  It did, indeed.  Newman was not unconscious.  I could have wished he was, so he might not have heard those words.  He lifted his face to the light, and I could see the sweat of agony upon it.  He did not speak.  He just looked at the man in front of him.  It was a look of unutterable loathing; his expression was as though he were regarding something indescribably obscene and revolting.  And then he pursed his lips and spat in Captain Swope’s face.

The skipper stepped back, and swabbed his cheek with his sleeve.  I thought he would strike Newman, kick him, practice some devilish cruelty upon him in payment.  Aye, I was crouched for the spring, with my sheath knife ready; if he had laid finger upon Newman I should have had his life in an instant.  I was all the barbarian that moment, my new-found scruples forgotten.  I was in a killing mood.  What man would not have been.

But Captain Swope did not attempt to repay the insult with any physical cruelty.  He knew he was already racking his enemy’s body to the limit of endurance, and his aim, I discovered, was to supplement this bodily suffering with mental torture.  Indeed, Swope seemed pleased at Newman’s act.  He laughed as he wiped his face.

“That stings—­eh, Roy?  It’s true—­be certain of that, you soft-hearted fool.  I tell the truth sometimes, Roy—­when it serves my purpose.  And I want you to imagine the details of what is going to happen to her.  Think of it, Roy—­the Lady of the Golden Bough, the saintly Mrs. Swope, the sweet Mary Baintree that was—­lying in Fitzgibbon’s arms!  Pretty thought!”

Chuckling, Swope resumed his seat.  He leaned forward, and watched Newman with hawklike intensity.  But Newman gave him little cause to chortle; his head dropped again upon his breast, and he gave no sound, no movement.

“Why don’t you call on God?” asked Swope.  “Why don’t you call on me?”

Newman lifted his head.  “You degenerate beast!” he said.  He said it evenly, without passion, and immediately withdrew his features from the other’s scrutiny.

But the captain was satisfied.  He slapped his thigh with delight.