He writhed and roared in his anguish of both flesh and spirit.

But I was pitiless.

He had ruined my life for me with his talking, and, as God lived, he should pay the only price that it lay in his power to pay--the price of physical suffering.

Again and again my whip hissed about his head and cut into his soft white flesh, whilst roaring for mercy he moved and rocked on his knees before me.
Instinctively he approached me to hamper my movements, whilst I moved back to give my lash the better play.

He held out his arms and joined his fat hands in supplication, but the lash caught them in its sinuous tormenting embrace, and started a red wheal across their whiteness.
He tucked them into his armpits with a scream, and fell prone upon the ground.
Then I remember that some of my men essayed to restrain me, which to my passion was as the wind to a blaze.