the clouds of smoke were now only three feet from
the ground. He crept along the floor on all fours to his oaken chest,
opened it, and drew forth therefrom a little Prayer Book and a couple of
ribbons, which he thrust into his bosom.

Then he also drew forth a long leather bag which was fastened at each
end by a clasp. These clasps he opened, one by one, with the utmost
composure. Inside lay the _pallos_,[16] that bright, two-edged implement
which flashes at the command of the criminal law, the weapon of Justice.

[Footnote 16: The sword of the public executioner.]

When Peter Zudar felt it in his hand, his gigantic figure suddenly arose
bolt upright, and there he stood amidst the smoke, amidst the flames,
like an avenging demon, slashing about him with his sparkling blade as
if he would say to the smoke and the flames, "Fear me! I am the
headsman!"

At that moment a thundering crash resounded behind him. His gun, which
had been leaning up against the wall, suddenly exploded by reason of the
intense heat, and the bullets penetrated the wall.

The shock recalled Zudar, whom a sort of frenzy had seized for a moment,
to his senses, and quickly crouching down upon the floor, he tore a
cushion from the bed and dragging it after him, crept towards the gaping
hole in the floor. The cushion he flung down before him and then leaped
carefully after it.

The cool air of the cellar gradually restored him to himself again; the
oppression of the fierce heat no longer tortured his brain, the
semi-darkness was so grateful to his eyes, already half-blinded by the
flames, a semi-darkness but faintly illuminated by the gleam of the
fiery-world above shining through the gap.

Then it occurred to him that this very gap was now superfluous.

In the stands of the cellar were several casks, large and small, either
empty or full of beer and wine.

He rolled one of the empty casks below the hole in the ceiling, and
turned it upside down. Then he stove in the top of a beer-cask and
dipped into it the cushion, allowing the beer to well soak through it.
Then he mounted on the top of the empty cask and thrust the saturated
cushion into the hole above.

It was now quite dark in the cellar, but Peter Zudar knew his way about
there all the same. He was well aware of the exact locality of the best
cask of beer, and lost no time in staving in the top of it, found a
pitcher in a niche close at hand, filled it with fresh beer, sat him
down by