A great white flare of light burst upon the grewsome spectacle—the roar of a charging monster—the din of shrieking klaxons—and then the piercing scream of a woman.
The dense mob in the road broke, fighting frantically to get out of the path of Lansing’s car. Some were struck and hurled screaming aside—and on came the car, forging its way slowly but relentlessly through the struggling mass.
A man standing up in the tonneau was crying in a stentorian, far-reaching voice:
“Fools! Accursed fools! Ye know not what ye do! Stop this hideous outrage! God forgive you if we are too late! God forgive—”
Again the woman’s scream.
“He is hanging! Hanging! Oh, God!”
Up to the swaying, wriggling form shot the car, a force irresistible guided by a man who thought not of the human beings he might crush to death in his desire to reach the one he sought to save.
“Let go of that rope!” yelled this man.
Behind him came another car. Panic seized the mob. The compact mass broke and scattered. Like sheep, men plunged down the slope—now a frightened, safety-seeking horde of cowards.
A writhing, tortured figure lay in the middle of the road, a loose rope swinging free from the limb. The bewildered, startled men who had held it in their hands fell back—uncertain, bewildered.