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He
had
sworn
to
remember
,
he
had
sworn
unceasingly
to
make
amends
.
And
there
was
he
,
sitting
happily
over
his
bow
-
stave
,
singing
,
actually
singing
.
.
.
.
He
went
indoors
,
opened
the
box
of
mustard
,
and
put
some
water
to
boil
on
the
fire
.
Half
an
hour
later
,
three
Delta
-
Minus
landworkers
from
one
of
the
Puttenham
Bokanovsky
Groups
happened
to
be
driving
to
Elstead
and
,
at
the
top
of
the
hill
,
were
astonished
to
see
a
young
man
standing
0utside
the
abandoned
lighthouse
stripped
to
the
waist
and
hitting
himself
with
a
whip
of
knotted
cords
.
His
back
was
horizontally
streaked
with
crimson
,
and
from
weal
to
weal
ran
thin
trickles
of
blood
.
The
driver
of
the
lorry
pulled
up
at
the
side
of
the
road
and
,
with
his
two
companions
,
stared
open
-
mouthed
at
the
extraordinary
spectacle
.
One
,
two
three
–
they
counted
the
strokes
.
After
the
eighth
,
the
young
man
interrupted
his
self
-
punishment
to
run
to
the
wood
’
s
edge
and
there
be
violently
sick
.
When
he
had
finished
,
he
picked
up
the
whip
and
began
hitting
himself
again
.
Nine
,
ten
,
eleven
,
twelve
.
.
.
"
Ford
!
"
whispered
the
driver
.
And
his
twins
were
of
the
same
opinion
.
"
Fordey
!
"
they
said
.
Three
days
later
,
like
turkey
buzzards
settling
on
a
corpse
,
the
reporters
came
.
Dried
and
hardened
over
a
slow
fire
of
green
wood
,
the
bow
was
ready
.
The
Savage
was
busy
on
his
arrows
.
Thirty
hazel
sticks
had
been
whittled
and
dried
,
tipped
with
sharp
nails
,
carefully
nocked
.
He
had
made
a
raid
one
night
on
the
Puttenham
poultry
farm
,
and
now
had
feathers
enough
to
equip
a
whole
armoury
.
It
was
at
work
upon
the
feathering
of
his
shafts
that
the
first
of
the
reporters
found
him
.
Noiseless
on
his
pneumatic
shoes
,
the
man
came
up
behind
him
.
"
Good
-
morning
,
Mr
.
Savage
,
"
he
said
.
"
I
am
the
representative
of
The
Hourly
Radio
.
"
Startled
as
though
by
the
bite
of
a
snake
,
the
Savage
sprang
to
his
feet
,
scattering
arrows
,
feathers
,
glue
-
pot
and
brush
in
all
directions
.
