Instead, "Fool," he said, "what do your tears help you or advance me?
Speak, I tell you, and answer my question! What was the appearance of this flask or bottle, or what it was--that you left there ?" The lad sank to his knees.

Fear and pain had robbed him of the petty cunning he possessed.

He no longer knew what to tell nor what to withhold.

And in a breath the truth was out.

"Don't strike me!" he wailed, guarding his smarting face with his arm.