He had never seen so craven a sight.
"What were you in prison for in Guiana, and what did they do to you there ?" asked Detricand sternly.

Again the old man shivered horribly, and tears streamed down his cheeks, as he whined piteously: "Oh no, no, no--for the mercy of Christ, no!" He threw up his hands as if to ward off a blow.
Detricand saw that this was not acting, that it was a supreme terror, an awful momentary aberration; for the traitor's eyes were wildly staring, the mouth was drawn in agony, the hands were now rigidly clutching an imaginary something, the body stiffened where it crouched.
Detricand understood now.

The old man had been tied to a triangle and whipped--how horribly who might know?
His mood towards the miserable creature changed: he spoke to him in a firm, quiet tone.
"There, there, you're not going to be hurt.

Be quiet now, and you shall not be touched." Then he stooped over, and quickly undoing the old man's waistcoat, he pulled down the coat and shirt and looked at his back.

As far as he could see it was scarred as though by a red-hot iron, and the healed welts were like whipcords on the shrivelled skin.