"Rax me a live peat," he said, and Sandy picked one up with the tongs and handed it to him. He seized the tongs, and held the peat against my arm just above the wrist where the blue veins showed. "That’ll mak’ ye talk, ye dog," he shouted. But no word escaped my lips. My eyes sought the distance--and there I saw the face of Mary--twin tears upon her eyelids. The pain was swallowed up by the joy. "He’s a dour deevil," growled Sandy. "Ay: but we’ll ha’e him yelling for mercy yet. The peat’s gaen cauld. Gar it lowe, Sandy." Sandy bent his head and blew upon the peat. It began to glow again--but I did not flinch. "Rax me anither," said my tormentor, letting the first fall and relaxing his grip of my arm. For a moment he turned to watch his companion pick up another glowing peat--and in that moment I eased the ropes about my right arm with my left hand. They slipped upwards and my right arm was free. My tormentors did not observe it when they came to me again and applied the torture to my left arm once more. Again Sandy lowered his head to blow upon the peat--and in that instant my right arm shot out like a steel spring, my fist crashed into his jaw and he fell in a heap, knocking the legs from under the giant, who fell heavily upon him. "Ye clumsy lout!" he cried, as he rose in drunken fury, and as Sandy lay motionless he kicked him savagely with his heavy boots in the chest. The kitchen door opened softly, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of the woman’s frightened face: then she withdrew. "Get up--I tell ye," roared the giant, kicking the recumbent figure again. My blow could have caused him only temporary damage--but this savagery of the giant would kill him. My eyes were on Sandy. His pallid face grew ashen: his chest was raised from the ground in a curve like a bow as he took a convulsive breath: blood and froth bubbled at his lips--and he lay still, his ashen pallor deepening. Fear seized the giant. He dropped on his knees beside the body. "Get up, Sandy my lammie"--he said, drunken tears falling down his cheeks. "Ye’re no’ deid. Ye’ll be a’ richt in a meenute. Get up, lad. Say ye’re no’ deid." But Sandy lay motionless. "You have killed him," I said. "You lie," roared the trooper, springing to his feet and facing me. "You did it--an’ ye’ll pey for ’t." He seized me by the throat, and readjusted my fastenings--binding me cruelly tight. Then he took a long draught from the bottle, and sat down. I watched him as he took a knife from his pocket, and ran his thumb along its edge. "I’ll bluid him like a sheep," he muttered, as he bent down and tried to sharpen the blade on the hearth-stone. I knew I could expect no mercy from this frenzied, half-drunken brute.