They started forward, and were soon on the edge of the crowd which numbered fully a dozen colored men. In the very midst was the white man Mark had mentioned. His hat was off, his collar and tie loose, his shirt torn, and he was fighting desperately. One cheek was bleeding from a long cut and his left arm hung limply at his side.
“It is Dan Markel!” ejaculated Darry. “Dan Markel, the fellow who once swindled Hockley!”
The crowd around the man was yelling fiercely and striking at every available opportunity. Dan Markel was yelling in return, but nobody appeared to listen to him.
“We must do something, or he’ll surely be killed,” said Frank.
By this time Professor Strong was close to the crowd. “Stop!” he called out, in French. “Stop! What does this mean?”
“He is a rascal!” said one native, wrathfully. “He is not fit to live!”
“He robbed the dead,” said another. “We saw him doing it—up at the Ladarosa plantation.”
“Let me go!” screamed Markel, in English. “It’s all a mistake.”
By this time the crowd was growing larger, and the shouting continued, until to make out what one individual was saying was impossible. Those nearest to Markel continued to strike at the man from Baltimore, until he went down from a blow on the head, and several in the crowd fell on top of him.
It was at this critical moment that several gens-d’armes appeared. They were doing police duty in that neighborhood, and at once set to work to restore peace. But it was not without great difficulty that they succeeded in quieting the negroes, who insisted upon it that Dan Markel be arrested.