There was no dream of interference, save in the mind of Phil.
The punishment continued amid the groans and prayers for mercy of the little sufferer.

But at the eighth stroke his pain and terror reached a climax, and nature succumbed.

He sank on the floor, fainting.

The padrone thought at first it was a pretense, and was about to repeat the strokes, when a look at the pallid, colorless face of the little sufferer alarmed him.

It did not excite his compassion, but kindled the fear that the boy might be dying, in which case the police might interfere and give him trouble; therefore he desisted, but unwillingly.
"He is sick," said Phil, starting forward.
"He is no more sick than I am," scowled the padrone.