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, Charley, 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. ‘Do you see that whip?’ 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, Charley!’ ‘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?’ Denny spoke in English; I turned his question into Greek. But the prisoner’s eyes told me that he had understood before I spoke. I smiled again. 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 chair 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.’ I did not interpret this time; there was no need; the boy certainly understood. But he 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, Charley.’ ‘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.’