Any one of them could have knocked him over with the blow of a little finger.

Despite his firearms, the gang could have rushed him and delivered that blow, when his head and the plantation would have been theirs.

Hatred and murder and lust for revenge they possessed to overflowing.

But one thing they lacked, the thing that he possessed, the flame of mastery that would not quench, that burned fiercely as ever in the disease-wasted body, and that was ever ready to flare forth and scorch and singe them with its ire.
"Narada! Billy!" Sheldon called sharply.
Two men slunk unwillingly forward and waited.
Sheldon gave the keys of the handcuffs to a house-boy, who went under the house and loosed the prisoner.
"You fella Narada, you fella Billy, take um this fella boy along tree and make fast, hands high up," was Sheldon's command.
While this was being done, slowly, amidst mutterings and restlessness on the part of the onlookers, one of the house-boys fetched a heavy-handled, heavy-lashed whip.

Sheldon began a speech.
"This fella Arunga, me cross along him too much.