He was a stout portly man, and, although we released him on the instant,
and had him bled, and threw water on his face, and did all we could for
him, he never spoke afterwards, and died in half an hour.
Four gentlemanly--looking men were sitting at table, lashed to their
chairs, pale and trembling, while six of the most ruffian--looking
scoundrels I ever beheld, stood on the opposite side of the table in a row
fronting us, with the light from the lamps shining full on them. Three of
them were small, but very square mulattoes; one was a South American
Indian, with the square high--boned visage, and long, lank, black glossy
hair of his cast. These four had no clothing besides their trowsers, and
stood with their arms folded, in all the calmness of desperate men, caught
in the very fact of some horrible atrocity, which they knew shut out all
hope of mercy. The two others were white Frenchmen, tall,
bushy--whiskered, sallow desperadoes, but still, wonderful to relate,
with, if I may so speak, the manners of gentlemen. One of them squinted,
and had a hair--lip, which gave him a horrible expression. They were
dressed in white trowsers and shirts, yellow silk sashes round their
waists, and a sort of blue uniform jacket, blue Gascon caps, with the
peaks, from each of which depended a large bullion tassel, hanging down on
one side of their heads. The whole party had apparently made up their
minds that resistance was vain, for their pistols and cutlasses, some of
them bloody, had all been laid on the table, with the buts and handles
towards us, contrasting horribly with the glittering equipage of steel,
and crystal, and silver things, on the snow--white damask table--cloth.
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