The Maroon. Mayne Reid

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      He was not allowed to remain long in ignorance. Ravener, roughly grasping him by the wrist, led him up to the furnace.

      The iron by this time was ready—glowing red-hot among the coals. The operator stood watching for the signal to use it; and on its being given, he seized the instrument in his grasp, and poised it aloft.

      The prince now perceived the intention, but shrank not at the sight. His eyes were not upon the iron, but, gleaming with a fire like that of the furnace itself, were directed upon the face of the old Jew—at intervals upon that of the angel-like demon at his side.

      The Jew alone shrank from the glance; his daughter returned it with a mocking imperturbability!

      In another instant the red brand hissed as it burnt into the flesh of the Fellattas bosom. Prince Cingües was the slave of Jacob Jessuron!

      As if the terrible reality had now for the first time burst upon him, the young man sprang forward with a cry; and before anyone could oppose his progress, he had bounded up the steps and entered the verandah.

      Then, gliding along the gallery, to the spot occupied by Jessuron and his daughter, he launched himself forward upon the Jew. As he clutched the latter by the throat, both came together to the ground, and rolled over and over in the writhings of a desperate struggle.

      Fortunate it was for the slave-merchant that his victim had been disarmed: else that moment would have been fatal to him. As it was, he came very near being strangled; and had it not been for Ravener and the two Spaniards, who hastened to his rescue, the betrayal of the Foolah prince would have been the last treason of his life.

      Overpowered by numbers, Cingües was at length secured; and the throat of the slave-merchant was extricated from his death-like clutch.

      “Kill him!” cried the Jew, as soon as he found breath to speak. “No, don’t kill him yet,” added he, correcting himself, “not joosh yet, till I punish him for it! an’ if I don’t punish him—ach!”

      “Flog the savage!” shouted the beautiful Judith; “make an example of him, Mr. Ravener: else those others will be rising upon us in the same style.”

      “Yesh, flog him! that’ll do to begin with. Flog him now, goot Ravener. Give him a hundred lashes thish minute!”

      “Ay, ay!” responded the overseer, dragging the victim down the steps; “I’ll give him his full dose—never fear you!”

      Ravener was as good as his word. The spectacle that followed was even more horrible to behold than that which has been described: for the punishment of the lash is among the most fearful of exhibitions.

      The young Foolah was tied to a post—one that stood there for the purpose. A strong headman wielded the cruel quirt; and as the last stripe was administered, completing that horrid hundred, the poor victim sank fainting against the blood-stained stake.

      The occupants of the verandah showed not the slightest signs of having been moved to pity by this horrid spectacle. On the contrary, both father and daughter seemed to draw delight from it; and, instead of retiring when the fearful scene was over, both, seemingly with perfect unconcern, remained to witness the finale of the day’s work—the marking of the Mandingoes!