His reveries were interrupted by the hoarse voice of a sergeant, breaking rudely in upon the silence and the dumb terror.  The fellow was herding the prisoners into position.  When he was done Barney found himself in the front rank of the little, hopeless band.  Opposite them, at a few paces, stood the firing squad, their gun butts resting upon the ground.

The young lieutenant stood at one side.  He issued some instructions in a low tone, then he raised his voice.

“Ready!” he commanded.  Fascinated by the horror of it, Barney watched the rifles raised smartly to the soldiers’ hips—­the movement was as precise as though the men were upon parade.  Every bolt clicked in unison with its fellows.

“Aim!” the pieces leaped to the hollows of the men’s shoulders.  The leveled barrels were upon a line with the breasts of the condemned.  A man at Barney’s right moaned.  Another sobbed.

“Fire!” There was the hideous roar of the volley.  Barney Custer crumpled forward to the ground, and three bodies fell upon his.  A moment later there was a second volley—­all had not fallen at the first.  Then the soldiers came among the bodies, searching for signs of life; but evidently the two volleys had done their work.  The sergeant formed his men in line.  The lieutenant marched them away.  Only silence remained on guard above the pitiful dead in the factory yard.

The day wore on and still the stiffening corpses lay where they had fallen.  Twilight came and then darkness.  A head appeared above the top of the wall that had enclosed the grounds.  Eyes peered through the night and keen ears listened for any sign of life within.  At last, evidently satisfied that the place was deserted, a man crawled over the summit of the wall and dropped to the ground within.  Here again he paused, peering and listening.

What strange business had he here among the dead that demanded such caution in its pursuit?  Presently he advanced toward the pile of corpses.  Quickly he tore open coats and searched pockets.  He ran his fingers along the fingers of the dead.  Two rings had rewarded his search and he was busy with a third that encircled the finger of a body that lay beneath three others.  It would not come off.  He pulled and tugged, and then he drew a knife from his pocket.

But he did not sever the digit.  Instead he shrank back with a muffled scream of terror.  The corpse that he would have mutilated had staggered suddenly to its feet, flinging the dead bodies to one side as it rose.

“You fiend!” broke from the lips of the dead man, and the ghoul turned and fled, gibbering in his fright.

The tramp of soldiers in the street beyond ceased suddenly at the sound from within the factory yard.  It was a detail of the guard marching to the relief of sentries.  A moment later the gates swung open and a score of soldiers entered.  They saw a figure dodging toward the wall a dozen paces from them, but they did not see the other that ran swiftly around the corner of the factory.