man to man. There was a sickening, slushing sound as the sharp points of their blades found the vitals of those dark masses beneath the ragged covers of the rickety bunks. Now and then a stifled groan, a rattle in the throat, which was suddenly choked by a rush of blood. This ghastly work lasted but a few minutes, and a crime was consummated that will forever brand Haiti as an outlaw among nations. With his own hands, Oscar put out the one dim light, and following in the wake of the butcher, left the room to darkness and the dead.
Their vile work finished, Théodor and Oscar fled through the night and sought shelter at the French legation.
Daylight revealed their absence from the palace. News of the massacre spread like wildfire to every nook and corner of the city. The troops defending the palace fled when they discovered their chiefs had deserted them. Papillon had been followed in death by all the other senators, and their souls cried aloud for vengeance.
Groups of cursing men and weeping women rushed from house to house, from hiding place to hiding place. Swift horsemen galloped over the roads leading to Gonaives and Saint Marc in search of the fugitives.
The sun was low in the heavens, when at length came word that Théodor and Oscar had been found in hiding at the French legation. The bugles sounded the assembly, and the bloodthirsty mob, armed with axes, spades and whatever other weapons could be procured, moved upon the legation. The streets were choked with a seething, writhing mass of humanity, undulating like some huge serpent as it approaches its prey.
The warning voice of the gray-haired consul, as he stood on the portico of the legation house, pleading with the bloodthirsty mob to remember the sacredness of an embassy, was drowned with rasping yells. ‘‘Give us Théodor! Give us Black Oscar!”
There was a sudden irresistible surge of that black mass. The gate and fence went down with a crash. On, on, up to the very doors it went. There was a splintering of wood, a rattling of broken glass, screams and shrieks. Oscar was dragged out first, and his body riddled with bullets. As his black carcass lay in the gutter, oozing red from a thousand punctures, and the thick tongue lolled out from between the yellow teeth, cheer after cheer went up from the multitude.
The exit of Théodor was more orderly. With downcast eyes his lean figure shambled out of the building between three huge blacks, one of whom carried three stout ropes. The mob gave back to permit ample passage, and strangely enough the street looking westward was without a single soul. There was at last a peculiar system, even in its innate madness, in which this mob carried out its vengeance.
The prisoner arrived at the edge of the street amid deafening shouts: “Murderer, where is our Papillon?”
A buggy arrived pulled by a strong Haitian mule.
Now, as if by mutual consent, the three blacks took charge of the situation. They proceeded to secure the end of one rope about the neck of Théodor, the other end to the axle of the buggy. The other two ropes were fastened above the ankles, leaving one end of each free. The ropes about the ankles were, however, much longer than the one about the neck. As certain ones of the mob grasped the intention of the three blacks they gave loud and prolonged cheers of approval.
At last all was ready. The buggy was in motion toward the west. Théodor, striving to keep on his feet, had his legs jerked from under him by the
