I have a picture in my mind of that ill-lighted room, of the startled
faces on which the flickering glimmer of the candles shed odd
shadows; of the humming and cracking of my whip; of my own voice
raised in oaths and epithets of contempt; of Rodenard's screams; of
the cries raised here and there in remonstrance or in entreaty, and
of some more bold that called shame upon me. Then others took up
that cry of "Shame!" so that at last I paused and stood there drawn
up to my full height, as if in challenge. Towering above the heads
of any in that room, I held my whip menacingly. I was unused to
criticism, and their expressions of condemnation roused me.
"Who questions my right?" I demanded arrogantly, whereupon they one
and all fell silent. "If any here be bold enough to step out, he
shall have my answer." Then, as none responded, I signified my
contempt for them by a laugh.
"Monseigneur!" wailed Rodenard at my feet, his voice growing feeble.
By way of answer, I gave him a final cut, then I flung the whip -
which had grown ragged in the fray - back to the ostler from whom I
had borrowed it.
"Let that suffice you, Rodenard," I said, touching him with my foot.
"See that I never set eyes upon you again, if you cherish your
miserable life!"
"Not that, monseigneur." groaned the wretch. "Oh, not that! You
have punished me; you have whipped me until I cannot stand; forgive
me, monseigneur, forgive me now!"
"I have forgiven you, but I never wish to see you again, lest I
should forget that I have forgiven you.
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