Part 13 (1/2)

At midnight he stood in the dark, close to the curtain. The darkness was not as dark as he should have liked. Some ghost of a glimmer of stars.h.i.+ne filtered into the room and he could make out the shape of the curtain. He waited, scourge in hand.

Presently Numisia spoke, told him that Brinnaria was prepared for her beating, took his left hand and guided it in the dark. He felt the curtain's edge against his wrist, felt a warm soft elbow, grasped it, and at once gained a notion of the direction in which he was to lay on his blows.

He struck round the other side of the curtain and felt that the scourge met its mark, but slantingly and draggingly. He tried again and seemed to do better.

For the third blow he made the scourge whistle through the air.

”Hit harder, you old fool,” spoke Brinnaria, ”you're barely tapping me!”

That made him angry and Brinnaria experienced as severe a scourging as any fat old gentleman could have compa.s.sed.

She did not shriek, sob or whimper: not a sound escaped her. She suffered, suffered acutely, particularly when one of the lamb hoofs struck a second time on a bleeding gash in her back or on a swollen weal. But her physical pain was drowned in a rising tide of anger and wrath. She felt the long repressed, half-forgotten tomboy, hoyden Brinnaria surging up in her and gaining mastery. She fairly boiled with rage, she blazed and flamed inwardly with a conflagration of resentment.

It was all she could do not to tear down the curtain, spring on Bambilio, wrench his scourge from his hand and lay it on him. She kept still and silent, but she felt her inward tornado of emotion gaining strength.

When Numisia spoke Bambilio let go Brinnaria's arm and stepped back a pace. ”My daughter,” he said, ”you have been punished enough. Your punishment is accomplished. This is sufficient.”

Then Brinnaria spoke, in a voice tense, not with pain, but with fury:

”You won't hit me again?”

”No, my daughter,” said Bambilio, ”no more.”

”You have quite done beating me?” she demanded.

”Quite done,” he replied.

Then, unexpectedly to herself, Brinnaria's wrath boiled over.

”Then,” she fairly yelled at him, ”I'm going to begin beating you. Shut your eyes. I'm going to pull down the curtain!”

Numisia made a horrified grab at Brinnaria and missed her. Brinnaria gave her a push; Numisia slipped, fell her length on the floor, struck her head and either fainted or was stunned.

Bambilio, his eyes tight shut, the instant after Numisia's head cracked the floor, heard snap the string supporting the curtain.

He shut his eyes tighter.

He felt the scourge wrenched from his limp fingers, felt the back of his neck grasped by a muscular young hand, felt the impact of the twenty-four sheep-hoofs on his back.

Through his clothing they stung and smarted.

There came another blow and another. Bambilio tried to get away, but he dreaded unseemly contact with a naked Vestal and did not succeed in his efforts.

The blows fell thick and fast. He was an old man exhausted by a long day of excitement and by his exertions while scourging Brinnaria.

His knees knocked together, he gasped, he snorted: the pain of the blows made him feel faint; he collapsed on the floor.

Then Brinnaria did beat him, till the blood ran from his back almost as from hers, beat him till the old man fainted dead away.

When her arm was tired she gave him a kick, threw the scourge on him and groped for Numisia.