At length the time arrived when the bravest soldier of our battalion was to suffer the penalty of his crime in the presence of those very men before whom he had been held up as a pattern but some few short months before. The square was formed for punishment: there was a tree in the centre to which the culprit was to be tied, and close to which he stood with folded arms and downcast eyes, in front of his guard. The surgeon stood by, while the buglers were busily engaged untangling the strings of the cats. There was a solemn stillness on that parade that was remarkable; a pensiveness on the features of both officers and men, deeper than usual, as though the honour of the profession was to suffer in the person of the prisoner. Flogging is at all times a disgusting subject of contemplation: in the present instance, it seemed doubly so, now that a gallant, and until within a few days, an honoured and respected man was to suffer. The sentence of the court-martial was read by the adjutant in a loud voice. Poor Tom, who had the commiseration of the whole regiment, looked deadly pale. That countenance which the brunt of the fiercest battle had been unable to turn from its ruddy hue—that countenance which the fear of death could not change—was now blanched in dread of a worse fate. “Buglers, do your duty,” exclaimed Colonel Beckwith, in a voice husky with emotion, I thought, as the men seemed to hesitate in their business of stripping and binding the prisoner to the tree. This, however, was soon accomplished, Tom only once attempting to catch the eye of his colonel with an imploring glance, while he exclaimed in broken accents— “Colonel, you won’t, will you? You won’t—you cannot mean to flog _me_!” The appeal, although it went to the heart of every one present, was vain. Colonel Beckwith betrayed much uneasiness; I beheld him give a slight start at the commencement of the punishment; but his sense of duty became paramount the moment he beheld the punishing bugler laying on rather lighter than was common. “Do your duty, Sir, fairly!” he uttered in a loud voice. The first man had bestowed his quantum of punishment, twenty-five lashes, when he was succeeded by another. This man, as if determined that his reputation as a flogger should not suffer, however his victim might, laid on like a hardened hand. Plunket’s sufferings were becoming intense: he bit his lip to stifle the utterance of his pangs; but nature, too strong for suppression, gave place more than once to a half agonized cry, that seemed to thrill through the very blood in my veins. Happily this wretched scene was destined to a brief termination: at the thirty-fifth lash, the Colonel ordered the punishment to cease, and the prisoner to be taken down. When this was done, he addressed Plunket: “You see, Sir, now, how very easy it is to commit a blackguard’s crime, but how difficult it is to take his punishment.”