The Victim | Page 8

going to do that, sir?" he asked.
The Boy trembled but held his tongue.
"Answer me, sir!"
"I didn't know just what they were going to do--"
"You knew they were up to something?"
"Yes!"
"And you didn't tell me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I couldn't be a traitor, sir."
"To those young rascals--no--but you could betray me--"
"I'm not a monk, Father--"
"Tell me what you know at once, sir, before I thrash you."
"I don't know much," the Boy slowly answered, "and I can't tell you
that."
There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence.
The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he should
whip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love.
He was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice full
of persuasive music.
He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to

the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece of
furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The
Boy had not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required
no great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that
machine.
There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard with
resolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment
was the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face.
The Boy had always thought him one of his best friends.
Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange
leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had
dreamed of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and
set his lips to receive the blow--the first he had ever felt.
The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the
bright, handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.
He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:
"I hate to strike you, my son--"
"Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.
"I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me what
you know and it'll be all right."
"I can't--"
"No matter how little, and I'll let you off."
"Will you?"
"I promise."
"I know one thing," the Boy said with a smile.
"Yes?"

"I know who blew out the light."
"Good!"
"If I tell you that much, you'll let me off?"
"Yes, my son."
The little head wagged doubtfully:
"Honest, now, Father?"
"I give you my solemn word."
"I blew it out!"
The fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed the
straps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap.
"You're a bright chap, my son. You'll go far in this world some day. A
great diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can only
lead you at last into a blind alley. You know now that I love you, don't
you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Come now, my Boy, there's too much strength and character in those
fine eyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roistering
fools lead you by the nose. You wouldn't have gotten into that
devilment if they hadn't persuaded you--now would you?"
"No."
"All right. Use the brain and heart God has given you. Don't let fools
use it for their own ends. Do your own thinking. Be your own man.
Stand on your own bottom."
And then, in low tones, the fine old face glowing with enthusiasm, the
monk talked to his little friend of Truth and Right, of Character and

Principle, of Love and God, until the tears began to slowly steal down
the rosy cheeks.
A new resolution fixed itself in the Boy's soul. He would live his own
life. No other human being should do it for him.

V
HOME
The mother's heart rebelled at last. She would not be put off longer. Her
baby had been gone two years. She refused point blank to listen to any
further argument.
Charles Green, the young Mississippian, studying law in Kentucky, and
acting as the Boy's guardian, was notified to bring him at the end of the
spring term.
On a glorious day in June they left Bardstown for Louisville, to take the
new steamboat line for home. These wonderful boats were the marvels
of their day. Their names conveyed but a hint of the awe they inspired.
The fleet of three vessels bore the titles, Volcano, Vesuvius and Ætna.
And the sparks that flew heavenward from their black chimneys were
far more impressive to the people who crowded the shores than the