"Pierre," she cried pitifully, "what are you a-goin' to do to me?"
He roped her to the heavy post of a set of shelves built against the
wall. Then he stood away, breathing fast.
"Now whose gel are you, Joan Carver?" he asked her.
"You know I'm yours, Pierre," she sobbed. "You got no need to tie me
to make me say that."
"I got to tie you to make you do more'n say it. I got to make sure you
are it. Hell-fire won't take the sureness out of me after this."
She turned her head, all that she could turn.
He was bending over the fire, and when he straightened she saw that he
held something in his hand ... a long bar of metal, white at the
shaped end. At once her memory showed her a broad glow of sunset
falling over Pierre at work. "There'll be stock all over the country
marked with them two bars," he had said. "The Two-Bar Brand, don't you
fergit it!" She was not likely to forget it now.
She shut her eyes. He stepped close to her and jerked her blouse down
from her shoulder. She writhed away from him, silent in her rage and
fear and fighting dumbly. She made no appeal. At that moment her heart
was so full of hatred that it was hardened to pride. He lifted his
brand and set it against the bare flesh of her shoulder.
Then terribly she screamed. Again, when he took the metal away, she
screamed. Afterwards there was a dreadful silence.
Joan had not lost consciousness. Her healthy nerves stanchly received
the anguish and the shock, nor did she make any further outcry. She
pressed her forehead against the sharp edge of the shelf, she drove
her nails into her hands, and at intervals she writhed from head to
foot. Circles of pain spread from the deep burn on her shoulder,
spread and shrank, to spread and shrink again. The bones of her
shoulder and arm ached terribly; fire still seemed to be eating into
her flesh. The air was full of the smell of scorched skin so that she
tasted it herself. And hotter than her hurt her heart burned consuming
its own tenderness and love and trust.
When this pain left her, when she was free of her bonds, no force nor
fear would hold her to Pierre. She would leave him as she had left her
father. She would go away. There was no place for her to go to, but
what did that matter so long as she might escape from this horrible
place and this infernal tormentor? She did not look about to see the
actuality of Pierre's silence. She thought that he had dropped the
brand and was sitting near the table with his face hidden. How long
the stillness of pain and fury and horror lasted there was no one to
reckon. It was most startlingly broken by a voice. "Who screamed for
help?" it said, and at the same instant a draught of icy air smote
Joan. The door had opened with suddenness and violence. With
difficulty she mastered her pain and turned her head.