zied yells: “Down with Théodor! Death to Oscar!”
Théodor shivered as he sensed the woful power behind this thing that he hated and feared, and his lips trembled as he turned to Oscar.
“Has not le général some plan? Something must be done,” he whined.
“If they become unruly we can toss—we can toss them a head,” answered the black brute as he curled his waxed mustache and shot a wicked glance at the bleeding Papillon.
“I have ever been the first to draw my sword for Haiti—I have lived for her and her misguided people—and, mon général, I shall gladly offer my life and my blood for her,” came from the puffed lips of the prisoner.
“Cur! Worshiper of voodoo!” shrieked Théodor as he confronted Papillon. “You shall speak to the vermin from yonder window—order them to return to their homes, or I swear by the great Capoix, your head shall roll at their feet.”
“Excellency, I am at your service. Such has been the course of liberty for a thousand years—blood, torture, death. Long live the common people! Long live liberty!”
Without another word Théodor seized him by the collar, lifted him from the chair, snatched the gleaming sword from the scabbard and plunged it through the body of the patriot. With a gurgling groan Papillon sank to the floor, while a crimson stream, gushing from a jagged wound in the breast, poured over the carpet of the room. Then with one horrible stroke Théodor severed the head from the trunk. The gory thing, rolling a few feet, stood upright on the bloody, slippery stub, then slid on across the room to the wall. There it sat in the pale light of the lamp, and the hair, still unruffled, was smoothly parted in the middle. Then occurred the most singularly awe-inspiring thing that ever greeted the eyes and ears of mortal man. What do men yet know of the mysteries of voodoo—its powers—the miracles it may perform?
Two great tears oozed from the eyes and dropped to the floor. The dead lips moved and a voice issued from the crimson mouth.
“Tomorrow, Théodor, tomorrow!”
Slowly the quivering lids closed over the glazing eyeballs, then opened, and the eyes fixed in the icy stare of death.
Théodor laughed a hoarse, bestial laugh, wiped the thickening gore from his blade on the leg of his trousers and said: “Tomorrow, Théodor, tomorrow! A pretty speech indeed, General.”
Picking up the ghastly head by the long black hair and holding it as far away as possible, Théodor walked to the window and deliberately hurled it out into the very face of the mob, yelling through the casement as he watched it catapult across the street: “Haitians, this is but the beginning! Depart at once, lest all the others meet, the fate of Papillon.”
Screams of rage rent the night. Crash on crash of musketry in the street below. The mob had rushed the gate and the troops had opened fire.
It was the terrified voice of Théodor. “We must flee, General! To the French legation for our lives!”
“My soldiers will defend the palace to the last man, Excellency. If we must go down, let us go down in a blaze of blood. To the prison!”
The helpless senators cringed beneath the covers as the sentinel passed. His clanking bayonet scabbard sent a hollow sound through the corridors, while his footfalls sounded like some weird echo in an empty tomb.
A key grated in the lock. Théodor and Oscar entered, and the murderous work began. Silently they went from
