But from somewhere in the darkness, one rioter brought a sack of flour, while another flung down a tin case of petroleum.

The sword had no sooner cut the sack across and punctured the tin, than a fat villain in a loin cloth, squatting on the earthen floor, kneaded flour and oil into a grimy batch of dough.
"Will you speak out and live," cried the swordsman, "or will you die ?" For a second the Christian did not stir.

Then, as though the option were not in his power,-- "Die," he answered.
The fat baker sprang up, and clapped on the obstinate head a shapeless gray turban of dough.

Half a dozen torches jostled for the honor of lighting it.

The Christian, crowned with sooty flames, gave a single cry, clear above all the others.