The men then walked around where they could get a good look at the trembling, pleading, terror-stricken Negroes, begging for life and declaring that they were innocent.
There was a moment’s pause of deliberation. The Negroes thought it meant that the assassins hesitated in their bloody deed, but the men hesitated only because they wanted deliberate action and a clear range for their bullets.
The Negroes, helpless, tied together with ropes, begged for mercy, for they saw the cold gun barrels, the angry and determined faces of the men, and they knew it meant death—instant death to them.
“Oh, God, have mercy!” cried one of the men in his agony. “Oh, give me a minute to live.”
The cry for mercy and the prayer for life brought an oath from the leader and derisive laughter from the mob.
“Stand up in a line,” said the man in command. “Stand up and we will see if we can’t kill you out; if we can’t, we’ll turn out.”
The Negroes faltered.
“Burn the devils,” came a suggestion from the crowd.
“No, we’ll shoot ’em like dogs,” said the mob’s leader.
“Stand up, every one of you and get up quick and march to the end of the room.”