“What are you doing?” said he. “Do you pity him? If you heard the cry of ‘Mad dog!’ you would take your gun—you would unhesitatingly shoot the poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of having been bitten by another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without being bitten by one of his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and who, now unable to kill anyone, because his hands are bound, wishes to see his companion in captivity perish. No, no—look, look!”
The recommendation was needless.
Franz was fascinated by the horrible spectacle.
The two assistants had borne Andrea to the scaffold, and there, in spite of his struggles, his bites, and his cries, had forced him to his knees.
During this time the executioner had raised his mace, and signed to them to get out of the way; the criminal strove to rise, but, ere he had time, the mace fell on his left temple.
A dull and heavy sound was heard, and the man dropped like an ox on his face, and then turned over on his back.
The executioner let fall his mace, drew his knife, and with one stroke opened his throat, and mounting on his stomach, stamped violently on it with his feet. At every stroke a jet of blood sprang from the wound.
This time Franz could contain himself no longer, but sank, half fainting, into a seat.
Albert, with his eyes closed, was standing grasping the window-curtains.
The count was erect and triumphant, like the Avenging Angel!