Instantly four figures approached the object lying in front of me, two from either side of the room, and each one silently lifted a corner of the cloth, and doubled it back, so as to expose the corpse of a man whose countenance wore such an expression of terror and agony as made me use desperate efforts to cover my face with my hands. But they were held tight by the two persons who supported me on my seat, and the same sonorous voice which I had already heard commanded me to look upon the face that lay in front of me, and ponder upon the fate mapped out for all traitors to their country.
Such a command was not reassuring, and I relapsed into trembling passivity, while black cloaks and gray cloaks proceeded to try the murdered man after he was dead.
“What is the name of that traitor?” was the question I heard, from the lips of the man who seemed to be the president of the assembly.
“Karol Gratowitzki.”
“What was his crime?”
“He was a government spy.”
“And his special mission?”
“To dog the footsteps of Number Finis.”
“Then he deserves his fate. Who was the avenger?”
“Number Sixteen.”