* * *

The strained ligaments vibrated under the carefully touching fingers; and the Master had to work hard until the man stretchced out on a rough wooden bench groaned and opened his eyes.

Seeing the gloomy bearded face bent over him, the man shuddered convulsively and shut his eyes again.

"Don't be scared, – the Master said. – The day's over. It's evening now. Don't be scared and lie still."

He wasn't used to say so many words at a time, and it cost him much effort to finish the phrase.

"You, torturer..." – the man muttered.

"I am, – he agreed. – and a master too."

"Master..." – the man pronounced the word as if touching it with his swollen tongue. The word was utterly out of place here, within the smutty walls of the small hall with low ceiling, massive door and without any windows at all.

"Tomorrow you'll have the whip, – the Master warned. – Hang quiet, don't strain yourself. And cry. It will be easier for you."

"You are gonna kill me," – cool indifference sounded in the man's voice.

"No, I'm not, – said the Master. – Not tomorrow, anyway."

"I'm talking too much, – he thought. – It is age..."

The man moved his shoulder, with caution at first, then with more confidence. All bones appeared to be in place.