The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

My aunt had put out the lights; whether to render the house less conspicuous, or to help us see the better, I do not know. For few words passed as the three white faces peered out at the wild scene before us. The moon had risen now, and we could see the faces of some of the men, though many were in masks. A peculiar quietness seemed to come over the throng as they came closer to the bridge, once so tense that we could catch distinctly the pleading wail of the central figure, tugging desperately at the rope around his neck. Poor creature, he knew not the ways of Southern men; or perhaps he did—and yet one drowning in mid-ocean would still swim towards the shore.

We saw them drag the miserable culprit on to the bridge—then we turned away. I suppose every Southern woman would cry out in horror at the thought of following them thus far—and every one would have done the same as we. Yet now we turned, faint, from the window—that last dread scene was for other eyes than ours.

But suddenly we heard a mighty shout, marvelling what it might portend. A kind of gleeful cry it was, as if something had been discovered, or some better plan devised; which proved to be the case. For I looked again, and lo! they were bearing the wretch back from the bridge. A swift vision of mercy quickened my heart, for I took this to be a reprieve. Yet the doomed man seemed reluctant to be moved, clinging desperately to the railing of the bridge—for his hands were free. The rope about his neck tightened as they dragged him back, and when it relaxed I could hear his piteous appeals, breaking now into loud wails of anguish. They dragged him on.

In a moment all was clear. A large post, or pole, stood close beside the bridge; towards this they hauled him, new zeal seeming to animate the breast of every executioner. I saw two or three of the younger men running towards the pole. They had something in their arms. It was wood—and a hot flush came over me from head to foot.

"Oh, God," I moaned to myself, "they're going to burn him," and even as I spoke they were tying the struggling man tight to the post, others piling the wood up about him.

In an instant all was ready—and I caught the gleam of a lighted match. I stood, transfixed with horror. Then I felt my aunt and my mother tugging faintly at my dress, clutching at my arm, their faces averted meantime.

"Come away; for God's sake, come away," they pleaded, faint and sick at heart.

I was just obeying and had already turned from the window, when I heard a shout, full of savage wrath and protest—whereat I turned and looked once more.

And my eyes fell on a scene that even yet, after all the intervening years, I cannot recall without a bounding heart. For suddenly from out the crowd there had rushed one man, tall, powerful, clothed in black, his face as savage as the others, though it was savagery of a different sort. He has told me since—though we have only spoken of it once or twice through all the years—that his own life was as nothing to him that night. He saw nothing but hundreds of bloodthirsty men, and one guilty wretch, and the first lick of flame about his feet. Out from the crowd had Gordon rushed with sudden impulse, and, when my eyes fell on him, the sticks and faggots were going this way and that, some by his feet, some by his hands outflung. Then, before the wonder-stricken men who were closest to him could interfere, he had trampled on the two or three already lighted brands, trampled them in fury deep into the ground.

Then he stood before them; he was close beside the black, whose quivering face was upturned to his in an agony of pleading. There he stood, a mighty figure of a man; at least, so he appeared to me as I gazed, petrified, at the awesome scene. And his pose was the very incarnation of defiance as he towered above them, his face aflame with indignation and courage and contempt.