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"Faiz-Ullah is shirking as usual," said Polaris, with a scornful grunt. "Faiz-Ullah is eating whip," said Corks. They could hear the leather-thonged polo-quirt lacing the little fellow's well-rounded barrel. Then The Rabbit's shrill neigh came across the ground. "I can't do all the work," he cried, desperately.
Throwing his thick, short body about in a kind of rolling gait, he only paused at times for a moment or two in order to hurl a vicious snarl at the praefect. His fingers were twitching convulsively the whole time, with longing no doubt to grasp the leather-thonged whip which they were so fond of wielding.
At his side stood a powerful knave armed with a stout, leather-thonged whip. "How many strokes, Monseigneur?" she heard the man inquire. "How many?" echoed the Marquise. "Do I know how many it will take to make an end of him? Beat him to death, man. Allons! Set about it." She saw the man uncoil his lash and step forward.
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