In another moment, the most wondrous prospect of his life opens before his eyes. High upon the stage, with back turned to the towering wall, as befits a soldier, his vision ranges over a tossing sea of savage faces, a human torrent that fills the wide estuary, surging full and fierce to the limits of its boundaries. Then a mighty tumult rises from the depths of the living whirlpool, the exultant roar of a myriad demons thirsting for blood. At last the giant limbs tremble, as the shouts swell fiercer and louder still--three distinct terrific huzzas--unmistakable to trained ears; they come from the angry throats of a thousand British soldiers, the fierce war-cry learnt from the cruel Cossack long ago. The red tyrant is delivered to the mob at last. Some say it is the shout of punters delighted to have won their bets, and loudly press the strange apology; but reason, giving preference to comparative methods, calls to mind the savage exultation that hailed the atonement of skipper Lowry and Mother Brownrigg, of Burke and Palmer, and muses thoughtfully upon this balance of justice. The gnarled, bony fingers of the red giant grasp the hand of Sheriff Cox, while the foul-odoured beast fumbles with the halter around his neck, withdrawing the noose and slipping it once more over his head. The victim turns to the plump Ordinary with a last request: “I do not wish to be pulled by the heels.” The priest deftly draws the cap over the gleaming, shrivelled face, and mumbles from his book. No clanging bell disturbs the peace of the sufferer, for he is a murderer, and this blessed torture is not for those of his class. The bareheaded crowd gazes with rapture upon the wooden scaffold, shorn of its appalling garb of black--another mercy vouchsafed to him who dies guilty of a brother’s blood. Suddenly there is a second mighty shout of triumph. The rope hangs plump between the two posts, and the tall, gaunt form is swaying in empty air. In another moment there are cries of horror, but of horror mingled with applause. The noose has formed an even collar around the giant’s neck, while the knot has slipped to the back of his head, which is still upright and unbent. Horrible convulsions seize the huge, struggling frame. It is a terrific scene--most glorious spectacle of suffering that a delighted crowd has ever gazed upon--Jack Ketch has bungled! Minutes pass, and still the hanging man battles fiercely for breath. Minutes pass, and not a hand is stretched forth to give him relief. Sheriff’s eyes meet eyes of Ordinary in mutual horror. Sheriff’s watch is dragged from its fob, and when the little steel hands have stretched to a right angle, at last a hasty signal is made to the expectant hangman. Two butchers beneath the scaffold seize upon the sufferer’s legs, and soon his agony of more than a fourth of an hour is brought to a close. A fierce shock, indeed, to reason and the balance of justice argument--a fiercer shock