“No lights!” shouted a loud-voiced man. “Come on! Hustle up! Let’s get it over with.”
Oliver strained at his bonds. His chest heaved, his throat swelled.
“In Christ’s name, men—what are you going to do with me?” he cried out in a strange, piercing voice.
“Shut up!”
“You are making a horrible mistake,” cried the captive, as he stumbled along between the men who held his arms. “You are committing the most horrible—”
Something fell upon his head, scraped down over his face. He stifled a scream. He felt the slack noose tighten about his bare throat.
“Damn you all to hell,” he raged, sinking his heels in the earth and holding back with all his might. “You beasts! You damned fools! Let go of me! Let me speak! Isn’t there a sensible man among you? Are you all—”
He was shoved forward, protesting shrilly, impatiently.
They had picked the spot: the place where father and son parted on that distant night. And the tree: the sturdy old oak whose limbs overhung the road. They had picked the limb.
There was no delay.... The stout rope was thrown over the limb, the noose was drawn close about his neck by cold, nervous fingers.... A prayer was strangled on his writhing lips. Strong hands hauled at the rope. He swung in the air....