They ask whether we will roast alive or come out and have our throats cut.

Oh!" she went on, clenching her hands, "oh! that I should have been born the head of such an accursed race.

Let Sheol take them all, for in the day of their tribulation no finger will I lift to save them." She was silent for a moment, and down below, near the gateway, I heard some brute screaming, "Pretty pigeons! Pretty pigeons, are your feathers singeing?
Come then into our pie, pretty pigeons, pretty pigeons!" followed by shouts of ribald laughter.
But it chanced it was this hound himself who went into the "pie." Presently, when the flames were brighter, I saw him, in the midst of a crowd of his admirers, singing his foul song, another verse of it about Maqueda, which I will not repeat, and by good fortune managed to put a bullet through his head.

It was not a bad shot considering the light and circumstances, and the only one I fired that night.

I trust also that it will be the last I shall ever fire at any human being.
Just as I was about to leave Maqueda and return with her message to Orme, to the effect that she would not move, the final catastrophe occurred.