Sebastian’s protests were drowned by the angry voices of the others.

“Tie him to yonder grating,” directed Esteban, who was still in the grip of a senseless rage.  “Flog him well and make haste about it.”

Sebastian, who had no time in which to recover himself, made but a weak resistance when Pancho Cueto locked his wrists into a pair of clumsy, old-fashioned manacles, first passing the chain around one of the bars of the iron window-grating which Esteban had indicated.  Sebastian felt that his whole world was tumbling about his ears.  He thought he must be dreaming.

Cueto swung a heavy lash; the sound of his blows echoed through the quinta, and they summoned, among others, Dona Isabel, who watched the scene from behind her shutter with much satisfaction.  The guests looked on approvingly.

Sebastian made no outcry.  The face he turned to his master, however, was puckered with reproach and bewilderment.  The whip bit deep; it drew blood and raised welts the thickness of one’s thumb; nevertheless, for the first few moments the victim suffered less in body than in spirit.  His brain was so benumbed, so shocked with other excitations, that he was well-nigh insensible to physical pain.  That Evangelina, flesh of his flesh, had been sold, that his lifelong faithfulness had brought such reward as this, that Esteban, light of his soul, had turned against him—­all this was simply astounding.  More his simple mind could not compass for the moment.  Gradually, however, he began to resent the shrieking injustice of it all, and unsuspected forces gathered inside of him.  They grew until his frame was shaken by primitive savage impulses.

After a time Don Esteban cried:  “That will do, Cueto!  Leave him now for the flies to punish.  They will remind him of his insolence.”

Then the guests departed, and Esteban staggered into the house and went to bed.

All that morning Sebastian stood with his hands chained high over his head.  The sun grew hotter and ever hotter upon his lacerated back:  the blood dried and clotted there; a cloud of flies gathered, swarming over the raw gashes left by Cueto’s whip.

Before leaving for Don Pablo’s quinta Evangelina came to bid her father an agonized farewell, and for a long time after she had gone the old man stood motionless, senseless, scarcely breathing.  Nor did the other slaves venture to approach him to offer sympathy or succor.  They passed with heads averted and with fear in their hearts.

Since Don Esteban’s nerves, or perhaps it was his conscience, did not permit him to sleep, he arose about noon-time and dressed himself.  He was still drunk, and the mad rage of the early morning still possessed him; therefore, when he mounted his horse he pretended not to see the figure chained to the window-grating.  Sebastian’s affection for his master was doglike and he had taken his punishment as a dog takes his, more in surprise than in anger, but at this proof of callous indifference a fire kindled in the old fellow’s breast, hotter by far than the fever from his fly-blown scores.  He was thirsty, too, but that was the least of his sufferings.