And he crossed his arms.  But he soon bad to turn away his head in order not to see the use the table was put to that stood in the center of the room, where it had seemed to serve no purpose.

They had lifted the man, still struggling, up onto the little table.  They placed a rope about his neck.  Then one of the “judges,” one of the blond young men, who seemed no older than Rouletabille, climbed on the table and slipped the other end of the rope through a great ring-bolt that projected from a beam of the ceiling.  During this time the man struggled futilely, and his death-rattle rose at last though the continued noise of his resistance and its overcoming.  But his last breath came with so violent a shake of the body that the whole death-apparatus, rope and ring-bolt, separated from the ceiling, and rolled to the ground with the dead man.

Rouletabille uttered a cry of horror.  “You are assassins!” he cried.  But was the man surely dead?  It was this that the pale figures with the yellow hair set themselves to make sure of.  He was.  Then they brought two sacks and the dead man was slipped into one of them.

Rouletabille said to them: 

“You are braver when you kill by an explosion, you know.”

He regretted bitterly that he had not died the night before in the explosion.  He did not feel very brave.  He talked to them bravely enough, but he trembled as his time approached.  That death horrified him.  He tried to keep from looking at the other sack.  He took the two ikons, of Saint Luke and of the Virgin, from his pocket and prayed to them.  He thought of the Lady in Black and wept.

A voice in the shadows said: 

“He is crying, the poor little fellow.”

It was Annouchka’s voice.

Rouletabille dried his tears and said: 

“Messieurs, one of you must have a mother.”

But all the voices cried: 

“No, no, we have mothers no more!”

“They have killed them,” cried some.  “They have sent them to Siberia,” cried others.

“Well, I have a mother still,” said the poor lad.  “I will not have the opportunity to embrace her.  It is a mother that I lost the day of my birth and that I have found again, but — I suppose it is to be said — on the day of my death.  I shall not see her again.  I have a friend; I shall not see him again either.  I have two little ikons here for them, and I am going to write a letter to each of them, if you will permit it.  Swear to me that you will see these reach them.”

“I swear it,” said, in French, the voice of Annouchka.

“Thanks, madame, you are kind.  And now, messieurs, that is all I ask of you.  I know I am here to reply to very grave accusations.  Permit me to say to you at once that I admit them all to be well founded.  Consequently, there need be no discussion between us.  I have deserved death and I accept it.  So permit me not to concern myself with what will be going on here.  I ask of you simply, as a last favor, not to hasten your preparations too much, so that I may be able to finish my letters>”