Argosy, Vol. 1 (December 9, 1882) — page 60: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE FETTERS OF IGNACIO. | 51 They separated and Crenshawe threw himself upon his shakedown. Active as his mind seemed to be in searching for further plans, it was, nevertheless, but a moment before he was sound asleep. Not so sound, however, that he was not conscious more than once during the night of movement around the hut. Once he was thoroughly awakened and lay for some minutes listening. He heard nothing that seemed significant and eventually dropped asleep again. How long it was after that, of course, he could not tell, but once again he was broad-awake, and he got up at once and went to the door of the hut. He saw somebody issuing from a hut near by. “What are you about?” he called sharply. The man neither replied nor in any other way paid attention to his demand. “ Probably nothing out of the ordinary,” thought Crenshawe, and he re- turned to his rude couch. He was awake again with the first light of day, and he heard a number of voices in the vicinity. The accents were those of the black slaves, and their words, of course, were gibberish to him. There was something in the tone that appeared to have a meaning of an unustal character. Excitement, resentment, fear—all these seemed to have a part in the conversation. Crenshawe went out and saw that a group of black men were talking earnestly at the door of one of the huts close by. He would have liked to ask them what was the matter, but his ignorance of their language prevented that, and, moreover, as he drew near they scowled at him and separated. Not one of them appeared to be willing to come in the slightest contact with him. Naturally enough, Crenshawe was filled with wonder, and, to tell the truth, he was a bit apprehensive. There was no guessing what this mysterious behavior portended. He had not long to speculate on it before there was an explanation. The beginning of it was a sharp cry of pain at a little distance. The blacks heard it, and promptly began to hurry away, taking every direc- tion but the one that led to the spot whence the cry issued. Crenshawe’s blocd thrilled. There was that in the sound of the voice that betokened the direst agony. Somebody was in peril, or suffering, or both, and not one of the human beings in sight so much as stirred for his relief. Under such circumstances there could be no hesitation for Crenshawe. He started on the run in the direction whence the cry came, and he speeded his steps still faster when he heard the cry repeated with an intensity of anguish that cut him like a knife. He had to pass through and around several clumps of trees that had a thick, low growing foliage before he came in view of a scene that fairly caused his heart to leap with the horror of it. Across a little open space of ground was a small hut similar to the one he himself occupied. Seated in front of the doorway, with an umbrella over his head, was Don Ignacio. He was fanning himself leisurely. In front of the Don, and between him and Crenshawe, therefore, was one of those antiquated instruments of torture known as the rack. It was on the ground and stretched upon it was the almost naked body of Tony. Two or three blacks stood by awaiting the orders of Josefo to set the bar- GOGO CO