Murrough in turn signed to two of his men. These came forward and stripped off what clothes had been left to Brian, so that he stood naked before them. In that moment he was minded to spring on the Dark Master and crush him with his chains, but he saw that Red Murrough held a flint-lock pistolet cocked, and knew it would be useless. Also, if he had to die, he was minded to do it like a man and not to shame the blood of Tyr-owen, either by seeking death or by shrinking at its face. Now there passed a murmur through the hall, and even the Dark Master's evil features glowed a little; for Brian's body was very fair and slim and white, yet these judges of men saw that he was like a thing of steel, and that beneath the satin skin his body was all rippling sinew. Red Murrough drew out a hasp, brought his chained hands together, and caught the chain close to his wrists, so that his hands were bound close. "Now," said the Dark Master, settling back and stroking his wolfhound as if he were watching some curious spectacle, "do with him as we did with Con O'More last Candlemas. But let us work slowly, for there is no haste, and we must break his will. In the end we will nail him to the door, and finish by breaking all his bones. It will be very interesting, eh?" A fierce howl and clash of steel answered him from the men. At another sign from Red Murrough, Brian felt himself jerked to the floor suddenly, and his hands were drawn up over his head. His wrist-chains were fastened to an iron ring set in the floor, and his ankles to another, and he stared up at the ceiling-rafters of the hall, watching the motes drift past overhead in the reaching sunbeams. It all seemed very unreal to him. "First that long hair of his," said the Dark Master quietly. Murrough went to the fire and returned with a blazing stick. Brian's gold-red hair had flung back from his head, along the floor, and presently he felt it burning, until his head was scorched and his brain began to roast and there was the smell of burnt hair rising from him. Then Murrough's rough hand brushed over his torn scalp, quelling the fire, but it did not quell the agony that wrenched Brian. "Paint him," ordered O'Donnell. Again Murrough went to the fireplace, and returned with a long white-hot iron which had lain among the embers. This he touched to Brian's right shoulder, so that the stench of scorched flesh sizzled up in a thin stream, and followed the iron down across the white breast and thigh, until it stopped at the knee, and there was a swath of red and blackened flesh down Brian's body. Yet he had not moved or flinched.