“Sir,” said he, “I beg your pardon; I fear I’ve hurt you.”
The people shouted louder in the street. The tall red-faced man offered a handkerchief, steeped in vinegar, for me to inhale.
“Thank you,” said I to him, in the firmest tone I could summon, “it is needless; I am recovered.”
Then one of the men stooped down and fastened a small cord to my ankles, which restricted my steps; and this was again tied to the cord around my wrists; finally, the tall man threw my jacket over my shoulders, and tied the sleeves in front. All was now completed.
Then the Priest drew near with his Crucifix.
“Come, my son,” said he.
The men raised me by my arms; and I walked, but my steps were weak and tottering. At this moment the folding doors were thrown open. A furious clamour, a chill breeze, and a strong white light reached me in the shade. From the extreme of the dark chamber I saw through the rain a thousand yelling heads of the expectant mass. On the right of the doorway, a range of mounted gendarmes; in front, a detachment of soldiers; on the left, the back of the cart, with a ladder. A hideous picture, with the appropriate frame of a prison-door.
It was for this dread moment that I had reserved my courage. I advanced a few steps, and appeared on the threshold.
“There he is! there he is!” bellowed the crowd. “He’s come out at last!” and the nearest to me clapped their hands. Much as a king might be loved, there could not be more greeting for him.
The tall man first ascended the cart.