Then the implement was drawn back.

I looked up into the eyes of he who held the whip. I now knew what, in my heart, I was.

He who had been nearest to me now stepped away. I, and, I gather, the others, were now, again, left kneeling, but now our heads might be up.

We knelt there.

We were now being given time to ourselves, I suppose, kneeling there, the chain at our belly, that we might understand, and appreciate, the momentousness, at least from our point of view, of what had occurred. Let us now, kneeling there, the chain at our belly, realize what we had done, let us now understand, and appreciate, how we might now be utterly different from what we had been before.

I had kissed his whip, in giddy ecstasy!

I was prepared to give myself to him, to love him!

Had he so much as snapped his fingers I would have done anything!

I heard, again, voices behind me. One or another of the men were coming down the line, approaching from behind. I did not look back. It is not so easy to do, held in the collar, both from before and behind. Too, I did not know if it were permitted. This seemed a place in which it might be well to be very clear on what was permitted, and what was not.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, coming from behind, I saw the coils of another whip. Then two men were rather before me, to the left of the chain. I looked up. Joy transfigured my countenance for one, with his whip, was he who had earlier been nearest to me, he to whose whip I had pressed timidly, then fervently, my moist lips, which whip, too, I had subjected to the tender, eager servile caresses of my tongue. But it was the other fellow’s whip which was now held before me! It was not that of he who had hitherto been nearest to me! I looked up, dismayed, startled, at he who had been nearest to me. Surely it was his whip, and his whip alone, which I must kiss! He looked down at me. There seemed, for a moment, a sternness in his gaze. This terrified me. Quickly I put my head forward a little, as I could, in the chain and collar, and kissed, and licked, obediently, tears welling in my eyes, the other’s whip. The two men then, paying me no more attention, went forward on the chain and, in turn, each of those before me kissed what, too, for them, must have been a second whip. I knelt there. I looked after he who had been nearest to me. I choked back a sob.

In a few moments we again received instructions.

“To all fours,” I heard.

I, and the others, went forward to all fours.

We then waited there, on all fours, in the line. My tears fell to the stone flagging. My knees felt how hard it was, and my hands and toes. It had a rough texture. The corridor, it now seemed, was damp and cold. Too, it seemed dim now. The light from the lanterns flickered about. I became even more aware of my chains.

I sobbed.

I had kissed his whip. I had though that it meant everything, but it had meant nothing. But, of course, in meaning nothing, it had, in its way, in a sense more grievous and fearful then I had understood at the time, meant everything. The kissing of the whip had been impersonal. I was, apparently, in this place, one for whom it was appropriate to kiss the whip. That was the kind of which I was, whatever kind, in this place, that might be. The kissing of the whip had been impersonal. It made no difference whose whip it was. It could have been any whip. That was the lesson of the “second whip.”

After a time the men returned and, here and there, took positions along the line.

He who had been nearest to me was now near to me again. This was doubtless because he could speak my language. He was a bit before me, and to my left. I looked up at him. What emotions I felt! I had kissed his whip! He put his finger over his lips, cautioning me to silence. The whip was now partly uncoiled, in his right hand.

I put my head down.

The chain attached to the ring on the front of my collar looped forward, and up, to the side of the item before me. The chain attached to the ring on the back of my collar, as the link turned, and given my position, lay diagonally over my back, behind my left shoulder, whence it descended, to loop up, to the front ring of the collar behind me.

We waited.

I felt the coils of his whip touch my back lightly. It seemed an idle movement, prompted perhaps by no impulse more profound than might temp one, in passing time, to doodle on a sheet of paper with some writing implement, but, of course, any such touch shook me profoundly.

I looked up at him.

Again, with a gesture, I was cautioned to silence.

Did he not know what that touch did to me?

I put my head down again. There was a tiny sound of chain. I assumed that we, those of us in the line, would be soon removed from this place.

I did not know what awaited me.

Then, again, I felt the touch of the whip. This time, however, I did not sense that its movement was a completely idle one, little more, if anything, than doodling. Rather, it seemed somewhat more curious, more directed, as though it might have some object of inquiry in my mind. It moved, gently, inquisitively, along the side of my body. I gasped. There was a sound of chain. I almost fell. I recovered my position. I shuddered. I moaned, a tiny, helpless sound. I looked up at him, wildly.

“You do not have permission to speak,” he said.

I put my head down, again.

Then I felt the leather again, in its gentle, exploratory fashion, here and there, touch my body.

I did not dare to protest, of course. I was one, I gathered, to whom such things might be done.

“Ohh!” I said, suddenly.

“You may prove satisfactory,” he mused. “You may survive.”

At that moment words were again spoken, farther ahead in the line. But there need not be exact translations for us all, for the import of these words was clear enough, from the actions of those first in the line, who understood, and from the movements of the whips in the hands of the men, gesturing forward.

I heard the slack in the chains being taken up. I saw those before me, farther down the line, begin to move.

“Keep your head down,” he said.

I could not forget the feel of the whip, its touch, upon my body.

He who had been nearest to me was now back somewhere, back beside the line, behind me.

I heard chains moving ahead of me. Neck chains, and those on small wrists and ankles.

I had felt the gentle touch of the whip.

It seemed my body was on fire.

Then I felt the chain grow taut before me, and draw on the ring on the front of my collar, and I, too, on all fours, joined that procession moving down the corridor, and in turn, so, too, did those behind me.

I crawled in chains, at the feet of men.

The corridor was long.

I could not forget the touch of the leather. I had succumbed, physiologically, emotionally, to its touch.

What could that mean?

What had become of me?

What lay ahead of me?

“Harta!” called a man. “Harta!”

Did he expect us to understand him? That must be a word in his language. Certainly it was not one in mine.

“Harta!” he called.

How could we possibly know what that meant?

There was suddenly, from well behind me, yards back, back down the line, a sharp, cruel crack, almost as clear and terrible, in the narrow corridor, as the report of a rifle. I, and several of the others, cried out, with misery and terror. But I do not think that anyone had been struck. I do not think that I had ever heard that sound before, or certainly not in such a way, or place, but there was no mistaking it. Something in me, immediately, without reconnoitering, without complex reflection, recognized it. To such as I that sound was very meaningful. We recognized it, and understood it, instantaneously. We did not have to be told what it was.

We hurried forward, sobbing.