Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned—the terrible tableau is reconstructed.
Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought:
“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”
Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.
How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,—flashing out into the open sunlight.
“A woman! a beautiful woman!”
’Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.
Like a meteor she pauses through their midst—glides on without giving a glance on either side—without speech, without halt—till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.
With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.
Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. “Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”