There was a short silence after that, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the cressets; next the sound of feet coming. A slow, steady tramp sounded along the hall. It came nearer, funereal in its slowness. It sent the cold streaking down my back and I shuddered at the thought. They were bringing him to his death. He was blindfolded, but I knew him by his size. He had tried to take my life. I do not know what else he had done. Perhaps he merited death. In that dreadful moment I bore him no ill-will for what he had tried to do to me. Death is death, and the cold-blooded savagery of this scene was appalling. While the condemned man was being brought forward the patroon was stern and silent. There was no token of remorse in his face. He betrayed no embarrassment when our eyes met. His cursed band of troopers was silent and still like so many statues. Now and then I would see an eye blink that was turned just right to reflect the light. I saw no other sign of life, though once I thought the whole band took breath together. This execution in the dead of night was a cruel scene. The air was still. The wild flames of the sputtering torches was like hell. They sent long shadows leaping into the dark to lose themselves in the forest beyond. Nothing is so mysterious and so ghastly as many human beings crowded close together, and always still, still, still as death. The strain of what I looked upon became almost unendurable. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to say they should not do it. In a moment I should have shrieked. But relief came from an unexpected source. The prisoner was told to stand still. The patroon made a sign to the chosen ten. They lifted their muskets to fire. I gripped tight hold of the railing in front of me. I shrank back and closed my eyes. The next moment I should hear the quick report of the guns and smell the deadly powder. Instead, a shrill owl-hoot broke upon the air. It was a common sound in those parts, but it came so unexpectedly, when everyone was so keyed up, that one cry broke from the strained band of troopers. But it was no owl-hoot after all, only an imitation. It was followed immediately by the uncanny voice of crazy Meg: “Fire and sleete and candle-light, And Christ receive your soul.” “Fire,” shouted the patroon. The rifles crashed on the frosty air. A dull thud followed. When I looked up, Ronald lay huddled in a heap. I put my hand over my eyes to shut out the sight. When I looked again, Meg was at his side singing. “Is there ony room at your head, Ronald? Is there ony room at your feet? Is there ony room at your side, Ronald? Where fain, fain I wad sleep?” I was not the only person who had been strained beyond endurance by the excitement of that moment. The patroon had lost his wits. He sprang to the old woman’s side. “Stop your nonsense, hag.”