On recovering from the stunning effects of the blow that had felled me, I found myself lying on a hard earthen floor, surrounded by deep impenetrable darkness.  
“Are you there, Jack?” I sighed faintly.
 
“Ay, Bob, I’m here—at least, all o’ me that’s left. I confess to you that I do feel a queer sensation, as if the one half of my head were absent and the other half a-wanting, while the brain lies exposed to the atmosphere. But I suppose that’s impossible.”
 
“Where are we, Jack?”
 
“We’re in an outhouse, in the hands of planters; so I made out by what I heard them say when I got my senses back; but I’ve no notion of what part o’ the world we’re in. Moreover, I don’t care. A man with only one leg, no head, and an exposed brain, isn’t worth caring about. I don’t care for him—not a button.”
 
“Oh, Jack, dear, don’t speak like that—I can’t stand it.”
 
“You’re lying down, ain’t you?” inquired Jack.
 
“Yes.”
 
“Then how d’you know whether you can stand it or not?”
 
I was so overcome, and, to say the truth, surprised, at my companion’s recklessness, that I could not reply. I lay motionless on the hard ground, meditating on our forlorn situation, when my thoughts were interrupted by the grating sound of a key turning in a lock. The door of the hut opened, and four men entered, each bearing a torch, which cast a brilliant glare over the hovel in which we were confined. There was almost nothing to be seen in the place. It was quite empty. The only peculiar thing that I observed about it was a thick post, with iron hooks fixed in it, which rose from the centre of the floor to the rafters, against which it was nailed. There were also a few strange-looking implements hanging round the walls, but I could not at first make out what these were intended for. I now perceived that Jack and I were chained to the wall.
 
Going to the four corners of the apartment, the four men placed their four torches in four stands that seemed made for the purpose, and then, approaching us, ranged themselves in a row before us. Two of them I recognised as being the men we had first seen in the swamp; the other two were strangers.
 
“So, my bucks,” began one of the former,—a hideous-looking man, whose personal appearance was by no means improved by a closed eye, a flattened nose, and a swelled cheek, the result of Jack’s first flourish of his wooden leg,—“so, we’ve got you, have we? The hounds have got you, eh?”
 
“So it appears,” replied Jack, in a tone of quiet contempt, as he sat on the ground with his back leaning against the wall, his hands clasped above his solitary knee, and his thumbs revolving round each other slowly. “I say,” continued Jack, an expression of concern crossed his handsome countenance, “I’m afraid you’re damaged, rather, about your head-piece. Your eye seems a little out of order, and, pardon me, but your nose is a little too flat—just a little. My poor fellow, I’m quite sorry for you; I really am, though you are a dog.”
 
The man opened his solitary eye and stared with amazement at Jack, who smiled, and, putting his head a little to the other side, returned the stare with interest.
 
“You’re a bold fellow,” said the man, on recovering a little from his surprise.
 
“I’m sorry,” retorted Jack, “that I cannot return you the compliment.”
 
I was horrified. I saw that my poor friend, probably under the influence of madness, had made up his mind to insult and defy our captors to their teeth, regardless of consequences. I tried to speak, but my lips refused their office. The man grinned horribly and gnashed his teeth, while the others made as though they would rush upon us and tear us limb from limb. But their chief, for such the spokesman seemed to be, restrained them.
 
“Hah!” he gasped, looking fiercely at Jack, and at the same time pointing to the implements on the wall, “d’ye see these things?”
 
“Not being quite so blind as you are, I do.”
 
“D’ye know what they’re for?”
 
“Not being a demon, which you seem to be, I don’t.”
 
“Hah! these—are,” (he spoke very slowly, and hissed the words out between his teeth),—“torterers!”
 
“What?” inquired Jack, putting his head a little more to one side and revolving his thumbs in a contrary direction, by way of variety.
 
“Torterers—man-torterers! What d’ye twirl your thumbs like that for, eh?”
 
“Because it reminds me how easily, if I were unchained and had on my wooden leg, I could twirl you round your own neck, and cram your heels into your own mouth, and ram you down your own throat, until there was nothing of you left but the extreme ends of your shirt-collar sticking out of your eyes.”
 
The mention of this peculiarly complicated operation seemed to be too much for the men: setting up a loud yell, they rushed upon Jack and seized him.
 
“Quick—the screws!” cried the man with the flattened nose.
 
A small iron instrument was brought, Jack’s thumbs inserted therein, and the handle turned. I heard a harsh, grating sound, and observed my poor companion’s face grow deadly pale and his lips turn blue. But he uttered no cry, and, to my surprise, he did not even struggle.
 
“Stop!” I shouted in a voice of thunder.
 
The men looked round in surprise. At that moment a great idea seemed to fill my soul. I cannot explain what it was. To this day I do not know what it was. It was a mystery—an indescribable mystery. I felt as one might be supposed to feel whose spirit were capable of eating material food, and had eaten too much. It was awful! Under the impulse of this sensation, I again shouted—
 
“Stop!”
 
“Why?”
 
“I cannot tell you why, until you unscrew that machine. Quick! it is of the deepest, the most vital............