Is the big anthill still there?” he asked the peones.

As they heard this, an expression of extreme dismay took shape on all their faces.

What torture did Alves have in store for his two victims, such as to give pause to laborers accustomed to his vengeance? That’s what we’re about to see. The band of men, with their prisoners, went on along the main trail as far as its first branching point, four hundred meters from the logging-camp.

“Halt!” ordered Alves. “Leave those two lying on the ground!”

The peones laid Longhi and the Indian down on the red earth of the trail and waited for new orders from their boss. We have to note that, ever since Alves’ revolver had been aimed at their chests for the second time, all wavering, all trace of conscience or humanity had vanished from their souls. Alves’ threats and his familiar angry voice had awakened the slavishness in them, and now they were ten automatons with brutish faces, spiritless, abject, who blindly obeyed that well-known voice.

By now all sympathy for Longhi had left them; there was nothing in the world now but their boss’s orders, and so they were on the way to becoming accomplices and executors of the horrible torture to come.

“See if there’s water in the well!” ordered the Brazilian. “If there is, get rid of it and dry the place with sand. I don’t want seu Longhi to catch a cold.”

The laborers headed for the well, a well abandoned at four meters down, because no water had appeared. When it rained, of course, they could draw up a few liters or so. Bending over its mouth, they found it was dry.

“Fine,” said Alves. “Less work.” And he gave the peones orders in a low voice. Four of them went to the camp, returning shortly with picks, shovels and a rectangular box. Alves opened it and took out two dark cylinders, addressing the inspector, who was stretched out on his back.

“Seu Longhi!” he said, giving him a kick in the head. “Vosé don’t recognize this?”

Longhi, who had his eyes closed against the sun, didn’t make a move.

“That’s no way to be, seu Longhi! That’s not right! If you’d deign to open your eyes, you’d see that this is dynamite . . . dynamite, seu Longhi,” he affirmed politely. “All right; we’ll open your eyes later . . . and the anthill is full?”

“Yes, boss,” replied a laborer.

“Excellent; now it’s my turn.”

And as he said this he went down to the bottom of the well.

“Cut a thick tacuara!” he shouted from below. “Ten inches is long enough!”

A moment later the piece of bamboo was on its way down. Alves made some moves at the bottom and after a while came up sweating.

“Fine! Now throw in all those stones . . . the big ones first. Careful! Excellent.”

When that was all done, Alves went down alone once more, put the sticks of dynamite inside the tacuara, implanted the fuse, and climbed out again. Under his surveillance the laborers went back to pitching stones, carefully covering the length of bamboo, and a half hour later the charge was ready.

“Now the other one!” said Alves. “Strip him nude!”

And in no time the Indian was naked.

“Stir up the anthill!”

Two peones went to the hill, but at the instant they were about to act Alves detained them.

“Just a minute! Go get the big bottle that’s in the storeroom, the one with the green label.”

When the laborer came back with the bottle, Alves addressed Longhi again with a smile of triumph.

“Look, vosé! This we’ve got here is turpentine . . . And ants,” he added, gently patting the bottle, “are very fond of turpentine . . . only they blunder and get very angry, seu Longhi. Your so esteemed friend Guaycurú will remember this a bit.”

Then the two peones each sank a stick into the anthill, violently stirring in all directions. The grey appearance of the hill was instantly transformed into deep black; millions of ants emerged in a fury, looking for the enemy that was attacking them. Alves sprinkled that formidable host with turpentine, and the laborers reinforced the bonds of the Indian.

Suddenly Longhi, who for a moment hadn’t caught the sound of any voice, heard a horrible howl of pain, and shuddered violently. Another howl resounded more intensely still, one in which all the suffering a human creature can endure came bursting forth from the victim’s soul.

“Fine, seu Guaycurú! Fine!” he heard Alves saying. “This is very good for learning how to respect bosses . . .”

Despite his indomitable energy, a cold sweat drenched Longhi’s forehead.

The torture had begun. The Indian, thrown naked into the midst of trillions of infuriated ants, was writhing with pain.