Outside, the Rebel, infantry was standing in the rifle pits, the artillerymen were in place about their loaded and trained pieces, the No. 4 of each gun holding the lanyard cord in his hand, ready to fire the piece at the instant of command.  The small squad of cavalry was drawn up on the hill near the Star Fort, and near it were the masters of the hounds, with their yelping packs.

All the hangers-on of the Rebel camp—­clerks, teamsters, employer, negros, hundreds of white and colored women, in all forming a motley crowd of between one and two thousand, were gathered together in a group between the end of the rifle pits and the Star Fort.  They had a good view from there, but a still better one could be had, a little farther to the right, and in front of the guns.  They kept edging up in that direction, as crowds will, though they knew the danger they would incur if the artillery opened.

The day was broiling hot.  The sun shot his perpendicular rays down with blistering fierceness, and the densely packed, motionless crowds made the heat almost insupportable.

Key took up his position inside the square to direct matters.  With him were Limber Jim, Dick McCullough, and one or two others.  Also, Ned Johnson, Tom Larkin, Sergeant Goody, and three others who were to act as hangmen.  Each of these six was provided with a white sack, such as the Rebels brought in meal in.  Two Corporals of my company—­“Stag” Harris and Wat Payne—­were appointed to pull the stays from under the platform at the signal.

A little after noon the South Gate opened, and Wirz rode in, dressed in a suit of white duck, and mounted on his white horse—­a conjunction which had gained for him the appellation of “Death on a Pale Horse.”  Behind him walked the faithful old priest, wearing his Church’s purple insignia of the deepest sorrow, and reading the service for the condemned.  The six doomed men followed, walking between double ranks of Rebel guards.

All came inside the hollow square and halted.  Wirz then said: 

“Brizners, I return to you dose men so Boot as I got dem.  You haf tried dem yourselves, and found dem guilty—­I haf had notting to do wit it.  I vash my hands of eferyting connected wit dem.  Do wit dem as you like, and may Gott haf mercy on you and on dem.  Garts, about face!  Voryvarts, march!”

With this he marched out and left us.

For a moment the condemned looked stunned.  They seemed to comprehend for the first time that it was really the determination of the Regulators to hang them.  Before that they had evidently thought that the talk of hanging was merely bluff.  One of them gasped out: 

“My God, men, you don’t really mean to hang us up there!”

Key answered grimly and laconically: 

“That seems to be about the size of it.”

At this they burst out in a passionate storm of intercessions and imprecations, which lasted for a minute or so, when it was stopped by one of them saying imperatively: