he made each note in this wild beast's cry sound separately, full of unspeakable suffering and terror.
Suddenly he stopped, and remained silent for a few minutes, without getting up. He began to whisper, as if speaking to the ground:
"Dear friends, good friends . . . dear friends . . . good friends . . . have pit . . . friends! My friends!"
He said a word, and listened to it.
He jumped to his feet, and for a whole hour poured forth a steady stream of the worst curses.
"Go to the devil, you scoundrels!" he screamed, rolling his bloodshot eyes. "If I must be hanged, hang me, instead of . . . Ah, you blackguards!"
The soldier on guard, as white as chalk, wept with anguish and fear; he pounded the door with the muzzle of his gun, and cried in a lamentable voice:
"I will shoot you! By God, do you hear? I will shoot you!"
But he did not dare to fire; they never fire on prisoners sentenced to death, except in case of revolt. And the Tzigane ground his teeth, swore, and spat. His brain, placed on the narrow frontier that separates life from death, crumbled like a lump of dried clay.
When they came, during the night, to take him to the gallows, he regained a little of his animation. His cheeks took on some color; in his eyes the usual strategy, a little savage, sparkled again, and he asked of one of the functionaries:
