"Where is the priest?" she asked them in a strange tone. The men looked at her together, then at each other. "Why, isn't he in the house?" "They are killing him," she said. And then, "What are you doing here?" Louis put down his pencil, and leaning out of the window, which was on a level with the street, he watched the scene a little while in silence. "By God!" he cried at last; "they're singeing the old man's beard. Listen to that." They listened and heard a harrowing sound, neither cry nor scream, but the wail as of a cat mewing. Twenty Turks had "Old Pop" in their midst; they had torn his clothes from his back and cut off his nose. Now some of them brought naphtha and poured it on his head, and instantly he became a vomit of flame.[1] Every feature of the wretched man could be seen with horrid distinctness, clarified by the fire. The flesh withered up before their eyes. He stood for a long minute plucking at his own flesh with hands of which but the bones were left. Then, all his cries ceased, and he fell forward in a ghastly heap, while the Turks howled derisively and thrust scimitars into the fire. They had burned many a priest these latter days, but this fellow was famous, and had fought many a good fight for Ranovica. His death stimulated a frenzy of lust and madness, and they rushed away to enter the houses and drive out the women. All the make-believe of a military occupation had been put aside by this time. Alussein had led them across the mountains to teach these Christians a lesson, and they were good masters. [1] The incident here described is taken almost unchanged from the recent story of Macedonia.