“’One!” said the referee again.  The corporal faced about, and raised his weapon, standing on tiptoe to get more swing.  Sachse flinched at the sound of the whip going up, and the other sergeants roared delight.  But he was still when it descended, and the crack of the blow drew neither murmur nor movement from him either.  Like the feldwebel, he had his sleeve between his teeth.

“Two!” said the referee, and the black whip rose again.  It descended with a crack and a splash on the very spot whence the blood flowed, this time cutting the pants open, but Schubert took no more notice of it than if a fly had settled on him.  There was a chorus of applause.

“Two!” said the referee.  Again the corporal faced about and balanced himself on tiptoe.  Sachse was much the more nervous of the two.  He flinched again while waiting for the blow, but met it when it did come without a tremor of any kind.  He was much the softer.  Blood flowed from him more freely, but his pants seemed to be of sterner stuff, for they did not split until the eight-and-twentieth lash, or thereabouts.

>From first to last, although the raw flesh lay open to the lash, and the corporal, urged to it by the united threats and praise of all the other sergeants, wrought his utmost, Schubert lay like a man asleep.  He might have been dead, except for the even rise and fall of his breathing, that never checked or quickened once.  Nine-and-forty strokes he took without a sign of yielding.  At the eight-and-fortieth Sachse moaned a little, and the referee gave the match against him.  Schubert rose to his feet unaided, grinning, red in the face, but without any tortured look.

“Now you can say forever that you have flogged two white men!” he told the askari.

“Who will believe me?” the man answered.

Sachse had to be helped to his feet.  He was pale and demanded brandy.

“What did I tell you?” laughed Schubert.  “A Prussian is better than any man!  Look at him, and then at me!”

He shouted for his servant, who had to be fetched from the boma—­a smug-faced little rascal, obviously in love with the glory reflected on the sergeant-major’s servant.  He was made to produce a basin and cold water—­he discovered them somewhere in the dim recesses of the store—­and sponge his master’s raw posterior before us all.  Then he was sent for clean white pants and presently Schubert, only refusing to sit down, was quite himself again.

Sachse on the other hand refused the ministrations of the boy—­was annoyed by the chaff of the other sergeants—­refused to drink any of the sweet champagne he would now have to pay for—­and went away in great dudgeon, murmuring about the madness that takes hold of men in Africa.

Meanwhile, while Schubert strutted and swaggered, making jokes more raw and beastly than his own flogged hide, the Jew came and poured more cool water on my hot bandages, touching them with deft fingers that looked like the hairy legs of a huge spider—­his touch more gentle—­more fugitive than any woman’s.