Those who were in favour of the prisoner being hung, then and there, were next invited to hold up their right hands.
In an instant about three hundred arms were held aloft. All of them that I saw were terminated with strong, sinewy fists, stained only with toil, and belonging to miners—the most respectable portion of the population.
This silent, but emphatic, declaration was considered final. After it had been delivered, there commenced a scene of wild excitement.
I rushed through the crowd, towards the tree under which the criminal stood. As I came up to him, I saw that a rope had been, already noosed around his neck.
A man was climbing into the live oak—for the purpose of passing the rope over one of its branches.
“Stop!” I cried, “stop for one minute! Let me ask this man a question, before he dies.”
Mr Leary turned towards me with a stare of surprise; and for the first time, since being brought upon the ground, did he appear to take any interest in what was passing!
“I am the Rolling Stone,” I shouted to him, “Tell me, where is my mother?”
The murderer smiled, and such a smile! It was the same fiendish expression he had thrown at me, when I last saw him in the boat in Dublin Bay.
“Tell me where I can find my mother!” I again asked, nearly frantic with rage.