There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence.
The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he should
whip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love.
He was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice full
of persuasive music.

He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to
the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece of
furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The Boy
had not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required no
great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that
machine.

There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard with
resolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment was
the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. The
Boy had always thought him one of his best friends.

Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange
leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamed
of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lips
to receive the blow--the first he had ever felt.

The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright,
handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.

He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:

"I hate to strike you, my son--"