Revenge of the Satyr

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The panic stricken peasant fell to his knees, both hands clasped together imploringly. His whole body began to shake jelly-like as Prince Vulkan slowly dismounted from his horse. The haughty young nobleman's handsome, yet spiteful face creased up into a vindictive frown as he advanced upon the hapless figure.

"How dare you withhold tax from the king you filthy, whingeing swine," the short-tempered prince screamed at the top of his voice. Punctuating his harsh words with a hail of withering blows from his riding quirt; lacing into the miller's face with the supple, stinging leather until the sobbing man threw himself prostrate into the dirt at the nobleman's feet.

"Mercy! Highness! Mercy!" the man begged wretchedly, "the drought has made the river all but disappear and without water the mill wheel will not turn and so I cannot earn enough to feed my family and pay the king's taxes," the miller's voice became even more wretched, "please Highness, I beg you and your gracious father to give me more time to pay."

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