But there was no hope of that. Some congratulated
themselves that they were not in Giacomo's place; others looked
upon his punishment as a matter of course. There was no dream of
interference, save in the mind of Phil.
The punishment continued amid the groans and prayers for mercy of
the little sufferer. But at the eighth stroke his pain and
terror reached a climax, and nature succumbed. He sank on the
floor, fainting. The padrone thought at first it was a pretense,
and was about to repeat the strokes, when a look at the pallid,
colorless face of the little sufferer alarmed him. It did not
excite his compassion, but kindled the fear that the boy might be
dying, in which case the police might interfere and give him
trouble; therefore he desisted, but unwillingly.
"He is sick," said Phil, starting forward.
"He is no more sick than I am," scowled the padrone. "Pietro,
some water!"
Pietro brought a glass of water, which the padrone threw in the
face of the fallen boy. The shock brought him partially to. He
opened his eyes, and looked around vacantly.
"What is the matter with you?" demanded the padrone, harshly.
"Where am I?" asked Giacomo, bewildered.
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