. . .
And the pain was awful. It felt as if the skin were being torn away
in strips. A new lash on the fresh cut, and another strip was torn
out; then another strip across the two. One felt like yelling, but
the throat was dry. One felt like scratching the ground, but the
finger nails had long become soft. One felt like biting one's own
flesh, but one had no power over himself so long as a man was
sitting on his neck and pinning it tight to the ground. It was hard
enough to stand the ordeal itself, as hard as hell. But it was
still harder to bear in mind that such a punishment was coming. It
felt as if one was being flogged every moment. So, in the stress of
the moment, I found my speech. "Sir," said I, saluting, "I would
rather stand twenty-five lashes at once than have the twenty lashes
divided in two parts."
"Why?" asked the sergeant.
"Because a Russian soldier has no time to keep accounts that concern
only his own back. He has no right to forget his military duties
even for a single moment."
Here the sergeant gave me an approving smile, and reduced the twenty
lashes to ten.
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