that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose,
firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed
straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting
frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his
eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one
would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently
this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision
for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside
and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The
sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately
behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements
left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the
same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end
upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth.
This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was
now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter
would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down
between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as
simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes
bandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his
gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his
feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes
followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a
sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and
children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding
mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the
soldiers, the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became
conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear
ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp,
distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer
upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it
was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its
recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He
awaited each stroke with impatience and--he knew not wh