Now at this moment Denny, refreshed by meat and drink, and in the highest of spirits, bounded into the hall. "How's the prisoner?" he cried. "Oh, he's all right. There's nothing the matter with him," I said; and, as I spoke, I moved the lantern, so that the boy's face and figure were again in shadow. "That's all right," observed Denny, cheerfully. "Because I thought, Charlie, we might get a little information out of him." "Perhaps he won't speak," I suggested, casting a glance at the captive, who sat now motionless in the chair. "Oh, I think he will," said Denny, confidently; and I observed for the first time that he held a very substantial looking whip in his hand; he must have found it in the kitchen. "We'll give the young ruffian a taste of this, if he's obstinate," said Denny; and I cannot say that his tone witnessed any great desire that the boy should prove at once compliant. I shifted my lantern so that I could see the proud young face while Denny could not. The boy's eyes met mine defiantly. "You hear what he proposes?" I asked. "Will you tell us all we want to know?" The boy made no answer, but I saw trouble in his face, and his eyes did not meet mine so boldly now. "We'll soon find a tongue for him," said Denny, in cheerful barbarity; "upon my word, he richly deserves a thrashing. Say the word, Charlie." "We haven't asked him anything yet," said I. "Oh, I'll ask him something. Look here, who was the fellow with you and Vlacho?" The boy was silent; defiance and fear struggled in the dark eyes. "You see, he's an obstinate beggar," said Denny, as though he had observed all necessary forms and could now get to business; and he drew the lash of the whip through his fingers. I am afraid Denny was rather looking forward to executing justice with his own hands. The boy rose again, and stood facing that heartless young ruffian, Denny--it was thus that I thought of Denny at the moment--then once again he sank back into his seat, and covered his face with his hands. "Well, I wouldn't go out killing if I hadn't more pluck than that," said Denny, scornfully. "You're not fit for the trade, my lad." The boy had no retort. His face was buried in those slim hands of his. For a moment he was quite still. Then he moved a little; it was a movement that spoke of helpless pain, and I heard something very like a stifled sob. "Just leave us alone a little, Denny," said I. "He may tell me what he won't tell you." "Are you going to let him off?" demanded Denny, suspiciously. "You never can be stiff in the back, Charlie." "I must see if he won't speak to me first," I pleaded, meekly. "But if he won't?" insisted Denny. "If he won't," said I, "and you still wish it, you may do what you like." Denny sheered off to the kitchen, with an air that did not seek to conceal his opinion of my foolish tender-heartedness. Again I was alone with the boy. "My friend is right," said I, gravely. "You are not fit for the trade. How came you to be in it?"