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 clattering down the steps. The action was all that saved Giles's life in that instant.

Giles turned to her with a crazed, furious face, yet in his frenzy he realized her danger; then, as he glanced warily at his enemies, fearful for the nearness of Virginia, he saw that they had frozen in their tracks; rigid as wild beasts at first sight of their quarry, and the look in the cruel eyes told him that they had sighted theirs.

A heavy step sounded upon the planking over their heads.

"It is Dessalines—Dessalines!" gasped Virginia, pale as the fluted column against which she stood.

"Listen!" said Giles.

A deep voice rumbled out from above; a voice low in key, not loud, yet audible as the beat of a distant drum. Each word, though muffled, was distinct; it carried a cadence of infinite weariness, hopeless resignation.

"You have come to kill me," welled the deep voice. "To shoot me, and to send my wicked soul to hell." The key sank lower; the words became a moan. "You cannot send my soul to hell; it is already there." He paused.

The men, startled, awe-struck, amazed at tone and words, stood spellbound. Giles and Virginia were unable to see Dessalines; there was little need. His imposing image was reflected from the awed faces of those who had come to take his life. If at that moment the negro had seen fit to employ his eloquence to save himself he might have done so; as it was, he had come to look upon himself as already dead.

The whole night he had spent in shuddering terror; the long-drawn breathings, which those listening at his 307