is scarred cheek-bone. But his voice was dispassionate and
harsh as ever when he said: "The prisoner Marche is at liberty to
confront witnesses. Trooper Kohlmann!"

There he stood, the same blond, bony Uhlan whom Jack had tumbled
into the dust, the same colourless giant whom he had dragged with
trailing spurs across the road to the tree.

From his pouch the soldier produced Jack's silver flask, with his
name engraved on the bottom, his pipe, still half full of
tobacco, just as he had dropped it when the field-glasses told
him that Uhlans, not French lancers, were coming down the
hill-side.

One by one three other Uhlans advanced from the motionless ranks,
saluted, briefly identified the prisoner, and stepped back again.

"Have you any statement to make?" demanded Von Steyr.

Jack's teeth were clenched, his throat contracted, he was
choking. Everything around him swam in darkness--a darkness lit
by little flames; his veins seemed bursting. He was in their
midst now, shouldered and shoved across the grass; their hot
breath fell on his face, their hands crushed his arms, bent back
his elbows, pushed him forward, faster, faster, towards the tree
where that thing hung, turning slowly as a squid spins on a
swivel.

It was the grating of the rope on his throat that crushed the
first cry out of him: "Von Steyr, shoot me! For the love of God!
Not--not this--"

He was struggling now--he set his teeth and struck furiously. The
crowd seemed to increase about him; now there was a mounted man
in their midst--more mounted men, shouting.

The rope suddenly tightened; the blood pounded in his cheeks, in
his temples; his tongue seemed to split open. Then he got his
fingers between the noose and his neck; now the thing loosened
and he pitched forward, but kept his feet.

"Gott verdammt!" roared a voice above him; "Von Steyr!--here! get
back there!--get back!"

"Rickerl!" gasped Jack--"tell--tell them--they must shoot--not
hang--"

He stood glaring at the soldiers before him, face bloody and
distorted, the rope trailing from one clenched hand. Breathless,
haggard, he planted his heels in the turf, and, dropping the
noose, set one foot on it. All around him horsemen crowded up,
lances slung from their elbows, helmets nodding as the restive
horses wheeled.

And now for the first time he saw the Marquis de Nesville, face
like a death-mask, one hand on the edge of the wicker balloon-car,
which stood in the midst of a circle