Parsons was given a cup of coffee a few minutes before the march to the scaffold was begun.
The rattling of chairs, tables and benches continued for several minutes, but by 10:05 there began to fall a hush, and conversation among the crowd sank almost to a whisper. The bare, whitewashed walls formed a painful contrast with the dark-brown gallows, with its four noosed ropes hanging ominously near the floor.
It was exactly 11:50 o’clock when Chief Bailiff Cahill entered the corridor and stood beneath the gallows. He requested in solemn tones that the gentlemen present would remove their hats. Instantly every head was bared. Then the tramp, tramp of many footsteps was heard resounding from the central corridor, and the crowd in front of the gallows knew that the condemned men had begun the march of death. The slow, steady march sounded nearer and nearer.
The anarchists were within a few feet of the scaffold. There was a pause. The condemned men were about to mount the stairway leading to the last platform from which they would ever speak. Step by step, steadily they mounted the stairway, and again there was another slight pause. Every eye was bent upon the metallic angle around which the four wretched victims were expected to make their appearance. A moment later their curiosity was rewarded. With steady, unfaltering step a white-robed figure stepped out from behind the protecting metallic screen and stood upon the drop. It was August Spies. It was evident that his hands were firmly bound behind him underneath his snowy shroud.
He walked with a firm, almost stately tread across the platform and took his stand under the left-hand noose at the corner of the scaffold farthest from the side at which he had entered. Very pale was the expressive face, and a solemn, far-away light shone in his blue eyes. His tawny hair was brushed back in the usual crisp waves from the big white forehead. Nothing could be imagined more melancholy, and at the same time dignified, than the expression which sat upon the face of August Spies at that moment. The chin was covered with a freshly budding beard and partially concealed the expression of the firmly-cut mouth. The lines were a little hardly drawn around the corners, however, and bespoke great internal tension. He stood directly behind the still noose, which reached down almost to his breast, and, having first cast a momentary glance upward at the rope, let his eyes fall upon the 200 faces that were upturned toward him. Never a muscle did he move, however; no sign of flinching or fear could be discerned in the white face—white almost as the shroud which it surmounted.
Spies had scarcely taken his place when he was followed by Fischer. He, too, was clad in a long white shroud that was gathered in at the ankles. His tall figure towered several inches over that of Spies, and as he stationed himself behind his particular noose his face was very pale, but a faint smile rested upon his lips. Like Spies, the white robe set off to advantage the rather pleasing features of Fischer, and as the man stood there waiting for his last moment his pale face was as calm as if he were asleep. Next came George Engel. There was a ruddy glow upon the rugged countenance of the old anarchist, and when he ranged himself alongside Fischer he raised himself to his full height, while his burly form seemed to expand with the feelings that were within him. Last came Parsons. His face looked actually handsome, though it was very pale. When he stepped upon the gallows he turned partially sideways to the dangling noose and regarded it with a fixed, stony gaze—one of mingled surprise and curiosity. Then he straightened himself under the fourth noose, and, as he did so, he turned his big gray eyes upon the crowd below with such a look of awful reproach and sadness as could not fail to strike the innermost chord of the hardest heart there. It was a look never to be forgotten. There was an expression almost of inspiration on the white, calm face, and the great, stony eyes seemed to burn into men’s hearts and ask: “What have I done?”
There they stood upon the scaffold, four white-robed figures, with set, stoical faces, to which it would seem no influence could bring a tremor of fear.
And now a bailiff approaches, and, seizing Parsons’ robe, passed a leathern strap around his ankles. In a moment they were closely pinioned together. Engel’s legs were next strapped together, and when the official approached Fischer, the latter straightened up his tall figure to its full height and placed his ankles close together to facilitate the operation. Spies was the last, but he was the first around whose neck the fatal cord was placed. One of the attendant bailiffs seized the noose in front of Spies and passed it deftly over the doomed man’s head. It caught over his right ear, but Spies, with a shake of his head, cast it down around his neck, and then the bailiff tightened it till it touched the warm flesh, and carefully placed the noose beneath the left ear.