“Get up,” said Mr. Red, “and precede me to the house.” Mr. Dick got up with a groan. He was really suffering considerably. The Berseker spirit, active in him during an earlier part of the day, was almost dead. He staggered on a few steps. Then a new notion seized him, a fear which was actually stronger than the fear of death. He understood suddenly that he was not, as he had boasted, a primitive man; that he was, on the contrary, highly civilized. He turned on Mr. Red and faced the revolver without a tremor. “I won’t go to the house without my clothes,” he said. “There may be ladies. There may be servants.” There was a determination in the way he spoke and in the expression of his face which was quite unmistakable. Mr. Red tried to bully him, but failed. No threat was of any avail. “I won’t go,” said Mr. Dick, “unless I can have my shirt at least.” “You can have your shirt,” said Mr. Red. “Go and get it.” Mr. Dick made his way slowly across the beach. He looked over his shoulder from time to time, and saw that Mr. Red was following closely with the revolver. He reached the grass, felt it soft under his feet, and moved more easily. It occurred to him that he might make a dash for liberty. Mr. Red would shoot, no doubt; but he might miss. He might hit, and still only wound--wound in some trifling way which would not prevent further flight. There was a grove of trees not fifty yards distant. They were small, scrubby trees, but they would afford some shelter. He made up his mind to risk it. Then the awful prospect before him made him pause. How could he--even supposing that he was not shot dead at once--wander stark naked through a strange country? He reached the pile of clothes, stooped down and picked up his shirt. Then he took up his trousers. “Drop that,” said Mr. Red. Dean Swift noted the fact that an unarmed man in his shirt is likely to get the worst of a struggle with eight armed men who are fully dressed. The chances are more equal, if there is only one armed man, if the unarmed man gets his trousers on. Mr. Red knew this, and strictly limited Mr. Dick’s clothing. He was not prepared to run any unnecessary risk with his prisoner. The warmth of the shirt, which was flannel, restored Mr. Dick’s self-respect and courage. He turned on Mr. Red once more. “If this is the way that Irish landlords habitually behave,” he said, “I don’t wonder that there has been an agrarian revolution in the country. I always had a certain sympathy with your class before, but now that I know what you really are I shall vote for the next Land Bill that is brought in, whatever it is.” “Precede me to the house,” said Mr. Red. Mr. Dick walked on. He crossed the grass rapidly and came to the gravel sweep in front of the house. Here his feet began to give him great pain again. The gravel was in some ways worse than the stones on the beach had been. Mr. Dick felt it severely.