And I awoke to find myself more tightly bound than before. My arms were held to my sides by a sack, and my legs were fastened to a pole. My head was firmly clamped, I knew not how. I could move my lips and my eyes; otherwise I was like a man of wood. A lamp stood on a projection of the wall, so that its light shone full on my face, and Boswell was stooping over me with a knife in his hand. My cheek was wet, and a smarting there told me the moisture was blood. What could the man be cutting my face for, I wondered, being dazed and not yet out of my dream. Before I had quite come to myself, he had made two slits in my nose, and pressed it to one side. At this I yelled, not so much for pain as from a kind of fright, and with that I regained my senses pretty well. "What's your devilish game now?" I asked with difficulty, for blood was running into my mouth. Boswell gave me no answer, but went on with his operation. He laid down his knife, released my head, pulled out of his pocket a narrow strip of cloth, and bound it tightly over my nose, crushing it cruelly. I could not speak now, being near suffocation by the stoppage of my nose with the bandage and of my mouth with blood. When he had taken a good, long look at his surgery, Boswell filled and lighted his pipe, and sat down to full enjoyment of his tobacco. While he sat puffing smoke through his nostrils, I recovered my wits a little, perceiving that I had been overcome by some drug, mixed with the wine I had taken, but what was the intent of the villain in gashing my face I could not surmise. My first thought was that the design might be to make me hideous in Anna's sight. As I lay, dizzily pondering, Boswell finished his pipe and laid it down to resume his work. He passed a cord several times round my body just above and below my elbows, knotting it securely. Then he slit the sack, and tore open my shirt, laying bare my breast, and taking up a needle and a small pot from the table, he began pricking my chest, dipping the point of the needle often into the pot. The pricking was worse to bear than the slashing with the knife, but I made no outcry, knowing the uselessness of it. So I lay silently shivering under the dab, dab of the needle for what seemed to me a fearfully long time, while he worked some kind of pattern on my breast. At length it came to an end, and when Boswell had examined his handiwork, adding a touch here and there, he laid down his implements, refilled his pipe, refreshed himself from a bottle, and sat down with the air of one well pleased with his achievement.