A shudder passed through the boy's frame.
"Nice, eh ?" said Bonaparte, peeping round into his face, speaking with a lisp, as though to a very little child.

"Nith, eh ?" But the eyes were black and lustreless, and seemed not to see him.

When he had given sixteen Bonaparte paused in his work to wipe a little drop of blood from his whip.
"Cold, eh?
What makes you shiver so?
Perhaps you would like to pull up your shirt?
But I've not quite done yet." When he had finished he wiped the whip again, and put it back in his pocket.

He cut the rope through with his penknife, and then took up the light.
"You don't seem to have found your tongue yet.

Forgotten how to cry ?" said Bonaparte, patting him on the cheek.
The boy looked up at him--not sullenly, not angrily.