At last the blare of trumpets and the roll of kettle-drums drowned the voice of the mob, and the sheriff arose on the dais and declared that despite the unhappy accident which had befallen the old vihodar, the execution of the law's sentence must proceed notwithstanding. The young master, the son of the vihodar, was there, and he was to do his duty, and that at once.
The uproar ceased and the crowd in intense expectation looked toward the scaffold for the new performer to appear. It was plain, from the deep silence that now ensued, that the newcomer had something to say.
Valentine kept his eyes closed. He was deeply agitated. Had he not been in the ranks he would have run away.
And now, in the midst of the general silence, he heard the young master addressing the people:
"This evil-doer who has killed my father is not worthy to be put out of the world by a human hand in a human way."
Valentine listened in amazement. That voice was familiar to his ear. It seemed to him as if he had once heard it from the pulpit.
But the other proceeded:
"There is a mode of execution used in distant Abyssinia, where the black skins of evil-doers are insensible to ordinary torture. They are sewn alive in fresh buffalo hides and hung in the sun. So soon as the hide begins to dry and shrink, the evil-doers learn to sing a veritable song of hell. That is the way in which I mean to execute this delinquent."
"What's that?" cried Valentine, "whose voice is that? Who but one that has attended the lectures of the learned Professor David Fröhlich could have heard of this Abyssinian tale? Who is it?"
He looked up and recognized the man in scarlet on the scaffold.