“Between you and me, Mr. O’Neil,” Stump confided, “I don’t believe this here gallows will ever grow any fruit.” Stump was about to say more, but perceiving Klinger riding his pony toward them, he shuffled awkwardly away, and began again to direct his native workmen. “Did he mean they ain’t going to hang this murderer?” Marley asked of his friend. O’Neil nodded. “I think he did,” he replied, “and I guess he’s about right.” The day before the execution a rumor passed through the native population that the man who had killed the black boy would not be hung, after all. Alice brought the gossip to the consulate. “They would hardly dare a rescue,” Mr. Lee declared. “O’Neil said he had heard from Stump, the man who built the gallows, that it wouldn’t be used,” Phil informed them. “Just playing to the gallery, I reckon,” Commander Tazewell suggested. “If I were only sure the poor fellow won’t be hung,” Alice said earnestly, “I’d go and see the ceremony.” “It’s no place for women,” Mr. Lee said reprovingly. “On the contrary, if I thought the ‘de facto’ government was honest in its desire to promote the Kapuan morals instead of making a fiasco out of it, I’d go and occupy a front row seat.” The next day when Phil and Sydney with many other curious white men, both from shore and the war-ships, reached the Malae, they found gathered a great throng of natives of both sexes. “I guess Stump, O’Neil and all the rest of them were wrong,” Phil said, after they had taken their seats and noted that the hour set had nearly arrived. Below the gallows the prisoner sat in a chair, just as unconcerned as he had been when he watched the pantomime rehearsal of his own death. Mr. Carlson, in full consular uniform, was the only official present. The king, with the count seated on his right hand, was a few yards in front of the gallows. A company of native soldiers under arms was drawn up near the high structure. Klinger was standing off by himself apparently only an interested spectator. Phil saw Stump behind the prisoner; apparently, he was to advise the native hangman, and make sure that there would be no painful error in the proceedings. “It’s a life for a life,” Sydney exclaimed turning almost sick, as he saw the prisoner jerked to his feet by Johnny Upolu and his two drilled assistants. The irons were quickly struck off and the man’s arms pinioned in a manner that reflected great credit upon Johnny. A native band suddenly struck up a doleful march, and the death party, keeping perfect time, moved off to the very foot of the ladder of the gallows. “I’m sorry I came,” Phil said nervously. “I don’t want to see the poor fellow put to death.” “Look!” Sydney exclaimed. The Herzovinian consul had risen and was walking toward the king. The music suddenly stopped. The prisoner, held on each side by a policeman, was stopped, one foot already upon the ladder to the platform.