"On the women's side."
The band passed through to the adjoining portion of the double building, and, keys having been secured, the rapidity of their search increased. Into the twin courtyard they filed; then while some investigated the cookhouse others climbed to the topmost tier of cells. As the quest narrowed, six of the Sicilians, who had lain concealed in a compartment on the first floor, broke out in a desperate endeavor to escape, but they were caught between the opposing ranks, as in the jaws of a trap. The cell door clanged to behind them; they found themselves at bay in the open yard. Resistance was useless; they sank to their knees and set up a cry for mercy. They shrieked, they sobbed, they groveled; but their enemies were open to no appeal, untouched by any sense of compunction. They were men wholly dominated by a single fixed idea, as merciless as machines.
There followed a nightmare scene; a horrid, bellowing uproar of voices and detonations, of groans and prayers and curses. The armed men emptied their weapons blindly into that writhing tangle of forms, and as one finished he stepped back while another took his place. The prison rocked with the din of it; the wretches were shot to pieces, riddled, by that horizontal hail which mowed and mangled like an invisible scythe. Now a figure struggled to its feet only to become the target for a fusillade; again one twisted in his agony only to be filled with missiles fired from so short a range that his garments were torn to rags. The pavement became wet and slippery; in one brief moment that section of the yard became a shambles.
Then men went up and poked among the bodies with the hot muzzles of their rifles, turning the corpses over for identification; and as each stark face was recognized a name went echoing out through the dingy corridors to the mob beyond.
Larubio, the cobbler, had attempted a daring ruse. The firing had ceased when up out of that limp and sodden heap he rose, his gray hair matted, his garments streaming. They thrust their rifles against his chest and killed him quickly.
Nine men had died by now, and only two remained, Normando and Maruffi. The former was found shortly, where he had squeezed himself into a dog-kennel which stood under the stairs; but the vigilantes, it seemed, had had enough of slaughter, so he was rushed into the street, where the crowd tore him to pieces as wolves rend a rabbit. Even his garments were ripped to rags and distributed as ghastly souvenirs.
Norvin Blake had been a witness to only a part of this brutality, but what he had seen had sickened him, and had increased his determination to find Gino Cressi. He shared not at all in the sanguinary exaltation which possessed his fellow-townsmen; instead he longed for the end and hoped he would be able to forget what he had seen. He would have fled but for his fear of what might happen to the Cressi boy. Corridor after corridor he searched, peering into cells, under cots, into corners and crannies, while through the cavernous old building the other hunters stormed. He was hard pressed to keep ahead of them, and when he finally found the lad they were dose at his heels.
They came upon him with the lad clinging to his knees, and a shout went up.
"Here's the Cressi kid. He gave the signal; let him have it!"
But Norvin turned upon them, saying: