A gaunt old man with a sour, dry mouth was talking, “He’s no scout,” he said. “He’s one of their lousy spies. Don’t he look like a spy? Let’s string him up to a tree.” His eye roved, looking for a suitable branch, His mouth seemed pleased. Ellyat saw two little scooped dishes, Hung on a balance, wavering in the air. One was bright tin and carried his life and breath, The other was black. They were balanced with dreadful evenness. But now the black dish trembled, starting to fall.