"
Sebastian's face was working as he turned upon his master to say:
"I would be lying if I told you that I am sorry for what I did. It
is you have done wrong. Your soul is black with this crime. Where
is my girl?"
"The devil! To hear you talk one would think you were a free man."
The planter's eyes were bleared and he brandished his riding-whip
threateningly. "I do as I please with my slaves. I tolerate no
insolence. Your girl? Well, she's in the house of Salvador, Don
Pablo's cochero, where she belongs. I've warned him that he will
have to tame her unruly spirit, as I have tamed yours."
Sebastian had hung sick and limp against the grating, but at these
words he suddenly roused. It was as if a current of electricity
had galvanized him. He strained at his manacles and the bars
groaned under his weight. His eyes began to roll, his lips drew
back over his blue gums. Noting his expression of ferocity,
Esteban cut at his naked back with the riding-whip, crying:
"Ho! Not subdued yet, eh? You need another flogging."
"Curse you and all that is yours," roared the maddened slave. "May
you know the misery you have put upon me. May you rot for a
million years in hell." The whip was rising and falling now, for
Esteban had lost what little self-control the liquor had left to
him. "May your children's bodies grow filthy with disease; may
they starve; may they--"
Sebastian was yelling, though his voice was hoarse with pain.
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