“I’ve made him squint!” said Ciboule, with a burst of laughter.

Goliath, maddened by the pain, instead of waiting for the attack, which the mob still hesitated to begin, so greatly were they awed by his appearance of herculean strength—­the only adversary worthy to cope with him being the quarryman, who had been borne to a distance by the surging of the crowd—­Goliath, in his rage, rushed headlong upon the nearest.  Such a struggle was too unequal to last long; but despair redoubled the Colossus’s strength, and the combat was for a moment terrible.  The unfortunate man did not fall at once.  For some seconds, almost buried amid a swarm of furious assailants, one saw now his mighty arm rise and fall like a sledge hammer, beating upon skulls and faces, and now his enormous head, livid and bloody, drawn back by some of the combatants hanging to his tangled hair.  Here and there sudden openings and violent oscillations of the crowd bore witness to the incredible energy of Goliath’s defence.  But when the quarryman succeeded in reaching him, Goliath was overpowered and thrown down.  A long, savage cheer in triumph announced this fall; for, under such circumstances, to “go under” is “to die.”  Instantly a thousand breathless and angry voices repeated the cry of “Death to the poisoner!”

Then began one of those scenes of massacre and torture, worthy of cannibals, horrible to relate, and the more incredible, that they happen almost always in the presence, and often with the aid, of honest and humane people, who, blinded by false notions and stupid prejudices, allow themselves to be led into all sorts of barbarity, under the idea of performing an act of inexorable justice.  As it frequently happens, the sight of the blood which flowed in torrents from Goliath’s wounds inflamed to madness the rage of his assailants.  A hundred fists struck at the unhappy man; he was stamped under foot, his face and chest were beaten in.  Ever and anon, in the midst of furious cries of “Death to the poisoner!” heavy blows were audible, followed by stifled groans.  It was a frightful butchery.  Each individual, yielding to a sanguinary frenzy, came in turn to strike his blow; or to tear off his morsel of flesh.  Women—­yes, women—­mothers!—­came to spend their rage on this mutilated form.

There was one moment of frightful terror.  With his face all bruised and covered with mud, his garments in rags, his chest bare, red, gaping with wounds—­Goliath, availing himself of a moment’s weariness on the part of his assassins, who believed him already, finished, succeeded, by one of those convulsive starts frequent in the last agony, in raising himself to his feet for a few seconds; then, blind with wounds and loss of blood, striking about his arms in the air as if to parry blows that were no longer struck, he muttered these words, which came from his mouth, accompanied by a crimson torrent:  “Mercy!  I am no poisoner.  Mercy!” This sort of resurrection produced so great an effect on the crowd, that for an instant they fell hack affrighted.  The clamor ceased, and a small space was left around the victim.  Some hearts began even to feel pity; when the quarryman, seeing Goliath blinded with blood, groping before him with his hands, exclaimed in ferocious allusion to a well-known game:  “Now for blind-man’s-bluff.”