Above, in the still air of the night, yet hung the pall of the black smoke-cloud, from whose heart had come the torch which had cost capital its money, and the mill people their living.
They were not long acting. Mammy Maria had flown to the little cottage—a crazy, hysterical creature—a wreck of herself—over-worked in body and mind, and frenzied between the deed and the promptings of a blind superstitious religion.
Lily hung to her neck sobbing, and the old woman in her pitiful fright was brought back partly to reason in the great love of her life for the little child. Even in her feebleness she was soothing her pet.
There were oaths, curses and trampling of many feet as they rushed in and seized her. Lily, screaming, was held by rough arms while they dragged the old nurse away.
Into a wood nearby they took her, the rope was thrown over a limb, the noose placed around her neck.
“Pray, you old witch—we will give you five minutes to pray.”
The old woman fell on her knees, but instead of praying for herself, she prayed for her executioners.
They jeered—they laughed. One struck her with a stick, but she only prayed for them the more.
“String her up,” they shouted—“her time's up!”
“Stand back there!”