He appeared stupefied by their audacity; he called for his captains.  Every one thrust his fist under his throat, vociferating abuse.  The crowd pressed on; and those who had their hands on him could scarce retain their hold.  However, he tried to whisper to them:  “I will gave you whatever you want!  I am rich!  Save me!” They dragged him along; heavy as he was his feet did not touch the ground.  The Ancients had been carried off.  His terror increased.  “You have beaten me!  I am your captive!  I will ransom myself!  Listen to me, my friends!” and borne along by all those shoulders which were pressed against his sides, he repeated:  “What are you going to do?  What do you want?  You can see that I am not obstanite!  I have always been good-natured!”

A gigantic cross stood at the gate.  The Barbarians howled:  “Here! here!” But he raised his voice still higher; and in the names of their gods he called upon them to lead him to the schalischim, because he wished to confide to him something on which their safety depended.

They paused, some asserting that it was right to summon Matho.  He was sent for.

Hanno fell upon the grass; and he saw around him other crosses also, as though the torture by which he was about to perish had been multiplied beforehand; he made efforts to convince himself that he was mistaken, that there was only one, and even to believe that there were none at all.  At last he was lifted up.

“Speak!” said Matho.

He offered to give up Hamilcar; then they would enter Carthage and both be kings.

Matho withdrew, signing to the others to make haste.  It was a stratagem, he thought, to gain time.

The Barbarian was mistaken; Hanno was in an extremity when consideration is had to nothing, and, moreover, he so execrated Hamilcar that he would have sacrificed him and all his soldiers on the slightest hope of safety.

The Ancients were languishing on the ground at the foot of the crosses; ropes had already been passed beneath their armpits.  Then the old Suffet, understanding that he must die, wept.

They tore off the clothes that were still left on him—­and the horror of his person appeared.  Ulcers covered the nameless mass; the fat on his legs hid the nails on his feet; from his fingers there hung what looked like greenish strips; and the tears streaming through the tubercles on his cheeks gave to his face an expression of frightful sadness, for they seemed to take up more room than on another human face.  His royal fillet, which was half unfastened, trailed with his white hair in the dust.

They thought that they had no ropes strong enough to haul him up to the top of the cross, and they nailed him upon it, after the Punic fashion, before it was erected.  But his pride awoke in his pain.  He began to overwhelm them with abuse.  He foamed and twisted like a marine monster being slaughtered on the shore, and predicted that they would all end more horribly still, and that he would be avenged.