The cries of the pursuers warned the people who were working afar off, without understanding the alarm.
Suddenly the fugitive was within a concave semi-circle of men who were awaiting him firmly, and a convex semi-circle following his footsteps in irregular pursuit.

The two multitudes, closing their extremes, united and the spy was a prisoner.
Ferragut saw that he was intensely pale, panting, casting his eyes around him with the expression of an animal at bay, but still thinking of the possibility of defending himself.
His right hand was feeling around one of his pockets.

Perhaps he was going to draw out a revolver in order to die, defending himself.

A negro nearby raised a beam of wood which he was grasping as a club.

The spy's hand, displaying a bit of paper between the fingers, was hastily raised toward his mouth; but the negro's blow, suspended in the air, fell upon his arm, making it hang inert.