ontinual grin, which
revealed red gums set with enormous, pointed teeth, gave his jaw the
look of a gorilla's.

He burst out laughing:

"M. Simon Dubosc? M. Simon Dubosc will pardon me. Before I deal with
him, I have a few poor fellows to dispatch to a better world. I shall
attend to you in three minutes, M. Simon Dubosc."

And, turning to his henchman:

"First gentleman."

They pushed forward a poor devil quaking with fear.

"How much gold has this one stolen?" he asked.

One of the warders replied:

"Two sovereigns, my lord, fallen outside the barricades."

"Kill him."

A revolver-shot; and the poor wretch fell dead.

Three more executions followed, performed in as summary a fashion; and
at each the executioners and their assistants were seized with a fit
of hilarity which found expression in cheers and the cutting of many
capers.

But when the fourth sufferer's turn came--he had stolen nothing, but
was under suspicion of stealing--the executioner's revolver missed
fire. Then Rolleston leapt from his throne, uncoiled his great height,
towered above his victim's head and buried his knife between his
shoulder-blades.

It was a moment of delirious delight. The guard of honour yelped and
roared, dancing a frantic jig upon the platform. Rolleston resumed his
throne.

After this, an axe cleft the air twice in succession and two heads
leapt into the air.

All these monsters gave the impression of the court of some nigger
monarch in the heart of Africa. Liberated from all that restrains its
impulses and controls its actions, left to itself, with no fear of
the police, mankind, represented by this gang of cut-throats, was
relapsing into its primitive animal state. Instinct reigned supreme,
in all its fierce absurdity. Rolleston, the drink-sodden chieftain of
a tribe of savages, was killing for killing's sake, because killing is
a pleasure not to be indulged in everyday life and because the sight
of blood intoxicated him more effectually than champagne.

"It's the Frenchman's turn"; cried the despot, bursting into laughter.
"It's M. Dubosc's turn! And I will deal with him myself!"

He stepped down from his throne again, holding a red knife in his
hand, and planted himself before Simon:

"Ah, M. Dubosc," he said, in a husky voice, "you escaped me the first
time, in a hotel at Hastings! Yes, it appears I stabbed the wrong man.
That was a bit of luck for you! But then, my dear sir, why the deuce,
instead