“Drink did it! drink did it,” he sobbed.  Then bowing his face in his hands, he asked:  “Is it true, did I kill her?  Oh, my God, my God!” For a moment he seemed to forget the awful fate that awaited him, and his body swayed to and fro with grief.  Some one seized me by the shoulder and hurled me back, and Smith fell writhing to the ground in terror as four men seized his arms to drag him to the float on which he was to be exhibited before he was finally burned at the stake.

I followed the procession and wept aloud as I saw little children of my own race follow the unfortunate man and taunt him with jeers.  Even at the stake, children of both sexes and colors gathered in groups, and when the father of the murdered child raised the hissing iron with which he was about to torture the helpless victim, the children became as frantic as the grown people and struggled forward to obtain places of advantage.

  It was terrible.  One little tot scarcely older than little Myrtle Vance
  clapped her baby hands as her father held her on his shoulders above the
  heads of the people.

  “For God’s sake,” I shouted, “send the children home.”

  “No, no,” shouted a hundred maddened voices; “let them learn a lesson.”

  I love children, but as I looked about the little faces distorted with
  passion and the bloodshot eyes of the cruel parents who held them high
  in their arms, I thanked God that I have none of my own.

As the hot iron sank deep into poor Henry’s flesh a hideous yell rent the air, and, with a sound as terrible as the cry, of lost souls on judgment day, 20,000 maddened people took up the victim’s cry of agony and a prolonged howl of maddened glee rent the air.

No one was himself now.  Every man, woman and child in that awful crowd was worked up to a greater frenzy than that which actuated Smith’s horrible crime.  The people were capable of any new atrocity now, and as Smith’s yells became more and more frequent, it was difficult to hold the crowd back, so anxious were the savages to participate in the sickening tortures.

  For half an hour I tried to pray as the beads of agony rolled down my
  forehead and bathed my face.

  For an instant a hush spread over the people.  I could stand no more, and
  with a superhuman effort dashed through the compact mass of humanity and
  stood at the foot of the burning scaffold.

  “In the name of God,” I cried, “I command you to cease this torture.”

  The heavy butt of a Winchester rifle descended on my head and I fell to
  the ground.  Rough hands seized me and angry men bore me away, and I was
  thankful.