two men manning the loose ends of the ropes about his ankles. He was bruised beyond description. His neck was scarred and bleeding from the noose, his tongue swollen and covered with dust. Bloody froth oozed from his nose and mouth as he was jolted from one side of the street to the other.
Suddenly he ceased to struggle and strive to keep his feet. There was apparent a certain limpness of the body that gave evidence of unconsciousness. Two trails of red showed in the street behind where the body was being dragged. Sharp stones wearing through the clothing had bit into the bare flesh.
Onward this weird procession went, followed by the crowding, yelling, approving mob, onward toward the west. At length the buggy stopped beneath the shadow of the Sacred Arch. The mob, like hungry vultures encircling a piece of carrion, surged around in a great circle with eyes staring and necks craning lest one single detail of this noisome scene be missed.
There fell upon this vengeful multitude a solemn silence, as from somewhere came the measured beat of the tom-tom—a terrible sound, such a sound as is heard in the fastness of the northern. mountains when the priest leads the death march. One of the blacks was untying the ropes from the gory victim; another was removing the grime and dirt from the distorted face with a damp gunny sack.
What could this mean? Could it be that the hearts of those two men were relenting? Low growls and sharp hisses escaped from the mob. A bottle of spirits, the powerful heathen rum, was held beneath the distended nostrils. A few drops were poured into the gaping, bruised mouth. A convulsive shudder passed through the body. The chest heaved, rose and fell. Consciousness was returning.
The circle had narrowed and the A mob was on the point of pouncing upon the reviving victim, when one of the blacks, rising from where he knelt over the prostrate figure, extended his hamlike hand high above his head and shouted with such a stentorian voice that it could be heard by the most distant one of the crowd:
“Are you fools, Haitians? Would you have this beast who has glutted himself upon our reddest blood die before your vengeance has been appeased? Let us torture him; let him writhe in agony; is that not good, countrymen?”
“Yes, yes!” came the answer from every mouth of that vast and blood craving throng.
A ladder was placed against the face of the Sacred Arch. The last rays of the setting sun shed a purplish light over the city; the drums beat the measured march of the dead. Théodor opened his bleary eyes and shuddered.
Two long ropes were tied under the armpits. Two heavy stones, attached to the other ends, were hurled over the top of the arch. Slowly, but with out much difficulty, two men hoisted upward the spare, bedraggled figure of Théodor; upward, till it dangled against the solid wall of the archway. Loud jeers rent the gathering dusk of approaching night: “Vive le président! Vive Théodor!”
Now one of the blacks was mounting the ladder. He carried under his arm a small chest, such a chest as carpenters use. The mob, expectant, gloating, their hawklike eyes on the cruel scene, stood breathless—waiting.
At last the top was reached. The black secured the peculiar chest to the topmost rung. The mob surged up about the foot of the ladder. A thousand eager, curious faces were upturned, as he seized the right arm of Théodor, extended it to full length along the wall and, without looking,
