ificent form, the queenly carriage
of Tiara, as bareheaded and with flag aloft she marched up to the
citadel of the outlaw.

Martin met her at the door, let her in and ran back to the tower to see
that no one took advantage of his absence to attempt to approach the
building. But his precaution was unnecessary. It was a matter of honor
with the great throng and none thought of violating the flag of truce.

Tiara followed Martin to the tower and spoke to him a few words in a
low, earnest voice.

"Woman, is that true? And all this havoc to be laid at my door?"

"My God!" said Martin humbly. "My God," he murmured again. Steadily down
the stairway he walked and flung the door wide open, saying to Tiara,
who followed, "Well, I'm done. They may have me." Tossing his rifle in
midair, he said, "I give up, gentlemen." Taking the white flag he
marched down the sidewalk, stepped outside the gate and stretched forth
his hand for the sheriff to handcuff him. No sooner was he thus fastened
than the mob surged in upon him. A blow from a stick knocked him down.
As he lay upon the ground the muzzle of a pistol was seen protruding
from each of the side pockets of his pants. Leroy Crutcher, whose
testimony had helped to stimulate the mob that lynched Dave Harper, was
again on hand. Eager for a souvenir that would enable him to boast to
the white people as to how he stood by them, he stooped down to snatch
one of the protruding pistols. Martin had the pistols so set in his
pocket that to snatch them would pull the triggers and cause them to
fire. A shot rang out and ploughed into Leroy Crutcher's body and he
fell a corpse.

The crowd swayed back from Gus in superstitious fear, taking him to be a
remarkable personage to be able to keep up a bombardment in his
condition. As no more shots came the mob felt reassured and drew near
the prostrate form of Gus. His eyes looked up into scores of pistols now
leveled at him, and as they rang out their death song Gus Martin smiled
and died.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

_Poor Fellow._

The whole of the night following the Gus Martin tragedy was spent by
Ensal in sorrowful meditation, as he restlessly walked to and fro in his
room.

The Rev. Percy G. Marshall had been an outspoken friend of the Negro.
The white South, Ensal felt, had at one time seemed to fetter its
pulpit, not allowing it much latitude in dealing with great moral
questions that chanced to have an accompanying political aspect.