"We want a rope," some one said.
A man rushed out of the house, carrying a long crimson scarf, which he fluttered over the heads of the crowd.
"This will do famously!" he called. "It belonged to his wife—she was huddling it over her face."
"Where is the woman?" they yelled. "Let's exterminate every snake in the nest!"
"She isn't on hand—twisted herself out of my hold like a cat, dashed off to the precipice, and the last I saw of her she was dragging herself up by the bushes."
"Dickinson is gone, too."
"No matter; we have this one safe. Gracious, how limpsy he is!"
"Make short work of it, then, before he shows fight."
"Never fear!" shouted one of his captors. "Say a prayer, you villain; it's your last chance."
The hapless wretch only moaned; fear had drawn him beyond the power of speech. Closer gathered the crowd—he felt their breath hot upon his cheek; hundreds of fierce eyes glared into his own; innumerable voices roared out his death-sentence. It was a terrible scene.