The anarchists were within a few feet of the scaffold. There was a pause. The condemned men were about to mount the stairway leading to the last platform from which they would ever speak. Step by step, steadily they mounted the stairway, and again there was another slight pause. Every eye was bent upon the metallic angle around which the four wretched victims were expected to make their appearance. A moment later their curiosity was rewarded. With steady, unfaltering step a white-robed figure stepped out from behind the protecting metallic screen and stood upon the drop. It was August Spies. It was evident that his hands were firmly bound behind him underneath his snowy shroud.

He walked with a firm, almost stately tread across the platform and took his stand under the left-hand noose at the corner of the scaffold farthest from the side at which he had entered. Very pale was the expressive face, and a solemn, far-away light shone in his blue eyes. His tawny hair was brushed back in the usual crisp waves from the big white forehead. Nothing could be imagined more melancholy, and at the same time dignified, than the expression which sat upon the face of August Spies at that moment. The chin was covered with a freshly budding beard and partially concealed the expression of the firmly-cut mouth. The lines were a little hardly drawn around the corners, however, and bespoke great internal tension. He stood directly behind the still noose, which reached down almost to his breast, and, having first cast a momentary glance upward at the rope, let his eyes fall upon the 200 faces that were upturned toward him. Never a muscle did he move, however; no sign of flinching or fear could be discerned in the white face—white almost as the shroud which it surmounted.

Spies had scarcely taken his place when he was followed by Fischer. He, too, was clad in a long white shroud that was gathered in at the ankles. His tall figure towered several inches over that of Spies, and as he stationed himself behind his particular noose his face was very pale, but a faint smile rested upon his lips. Like Spies, the white robe set off to advantage the rather pleasing features of Fischer, and as the man stood there waiting for his last moment his pale face was as calm as if he were asleep. Next came George Engel. There was a ruddy glow upon the rugged countenance of the old anarchist, and when he ranged himself alongside Fischer he raised himself to his full height, while his burly form seemed to expand with the feelings that were within him. Last came Parsons. His face looked actually handsome, though it was very pale. When he stepped upon the gallows he turned partially sideways to the dangling noose and regarded it with a fixed, stony gaze—one of mingled surprise and curiosity. Then he straightened himself under the fourth noose, and, as he did so, he turned his big gray eyes upon the crowd below with such a look of awful reproach and sadness as could not fail to strike the innermost chord of the hardest heart there. It was a look never to be forgotten. There was an expression almost of inspiration on the white, calm face, and the great, stony eyes seemed to burn into men’s hearts and ask: “What have I done?”

There they stood upon the scaffold, four white-robed figures, with set, stoical faces, to which it would seem no influence could bring a tremor of fear.

And now a bailiff approaches, and, seizing Parsons’ robe, passed a leathern strap around his ankles. In a moment they were closely pinioned together. Engel’s legs were next strapped together, and when the official approached Fischer, the latter straightened up his tall figure to its full height and placed his ankles close together to facilitate the operation. Spies was the last, but he was the first around whose neck the fatal cord was placed. One of the attendant bailiffs seized the noose in front of Spies and passed it deftly over the doomed man’s head. It caught over his right ear, but Spies, with a shake of his head, cast it down around his neck, and then the bailiff tightened it till it touched the warm flesh, and carefully placed the noose beneath the left ear.

When the officer approached Fischer threw back his head and bared his long, muscular throat by the movement.

Fischer’s neck was very long and the noose nestled snugly around it. When it was tightened around his windpipe Fischer turned around to Spies and laughingly whispered something in Spies’ ear. But the latter either did not hear him or else was too much occupied with other thoughts to pay attention. Engel smiled down at the crowd, and then turning to Deputy Peters, who guarded him, he smiled gratefully toward him and whispered something to the officer that seemed to affect him. It looked at first as if Engel were about to salute his guard with a kiss, but he evidently satisfied himself with some word of peace. Parson’s face never moved as the noose dropped over his head, but the same terrible, fixed look was on his face.

And now people were expecting that the speeches for which the four doomed ones craved twenty minutes each this morning would be delivered, but to every one’s surprise the officer who had adjusted the noose proceeded to fit on the white cap without delay. It was first placed on Spies’ head, completely hiding his head and face. Just before the cap was pulled over Fischer’s head Deputy Spears turned his eyes up to meet those of the tall young anarchist. Fischer smiled down on his guard just as pleasantly as Engel did on his, and he seemed to be whispering some words of forgiveness, but it may have been otherwise, as not even the faintest echo reached the men in the corridor below. Engel and Parsons soon donned their white caps after this, and now the four men stood upon the scaffold clad from top to toe in pure white.

All was ready now for the signal to let the drop fall. In the little box at the back of the stage and fastened to the wall the invisible executioner stood with axe poised, ready to cut the cord that held them between earth and heaven. The men had not noticed this but they knew the end was near.

For an instant there was a dead silence, and then a mournful solemn voice sounded from behind the first right-hand mask, and cut the air like a wail of sorrow and warning. Spies was speaking from behind his shroud.

The words seemed to drop into the cold, silent air like pellets of fire. Here is what he said: “It is not meet that I should speak here, where my silence is more terrible than my utterances.”

Then a deeper, stronger voice came out with a muffled, mysterious cadence from behind the white pall that hid the face of Fischer. He only spoke eight words: “This is the happiest moment of my life.”

But the next voice that catches up the refrain is a different one. It is firm, but the melancholy wail was not in it. It was harsh, loud, exultant. Engel was cheering for anarchy. “Hurrah for anarchy! Hurrah!” were the last words and the last cheer of George Engel.

But now the weird and ghastly scene was brought to a climax. Parsons alone remained to speak. Out from behind his mask his voice sounded more sad, and there was a more dreary, reproachful tone in it than even in Spies. “May I be allowed to speak? Oh, men of America!” he cried, “may I be allowed the privilege of speech even at the last moment? HARKEN TO THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE——”

There was a sudden pause. Parsons never spoke a word more. A sharp, creaking noise, a crash, a sickening, cracking sound, and Spies, Parsons, Fischer, and Engel were no more.

When the pulse-beats of all became imperceptible, which was about 12:10 o’clock, the physicians sat down and the bodies swung back and forth, while the deputies stood above them. There was a continual shifting of seats after the physicians left the bodies, and nearly all who could get away wanted to be allowed to do so. The sheriff opened a door at the west side of the building and a great many of the spectators left.

At 12:20 Spies’ body was let down and placed in a coffin, while the doctor examined him and found that the neck was not broken. He wore a dark-gray flannel shirt and dark pantaloons, but no coat. His arms were confined by a strap, as were those of all the others.

Fischer was next cut down. His neck was not broken. He wore a blue flannel shirt and gray trousers.

Engel came next. He had a blue flannel shirt and wore a collar. His neck was broken, but the spinal cord was not severed.

Parsons was the last to be taken down. He was clad in a neat black suit, but had only an undershirt on.

When all the bodies had been arranged in the coffins the physicians made another examination, and then the lids were placed on the coffins, and the work was done.

The condemned men directed that their bodies be turned over to their wives, except Spies, who wanted his body given to his mother. Their wishes were respected, and Coroner Hertz has directed that the body of Lingg be given to Mrs. Engel and the Carpenters’ Union, in accordance with Lingg’s request, so that they may all be buried together.

Since the conviction and condemnation of the anarchists of Haymarket notoriety in 1886, the whole world has stood with breathless anxiety watching for the ultimate, and no other avenue was left open but to inflict the penalty commensurate with their crime. Officers of the law frequently received letters threatningthreatening to wreak a summary vengeance upon them providing the sentence was carried out. The condemned maintained a bold and belligerent attitude, while every means to intimidate and thwart justice which the machinations of the nefarious Herr Most could devise, and his minions could hurl life flaming brands broadcast amid a peace-loving and contented people have been resorted to. But pitying justice wept with drooping head o’er the stern necessity which called for the interposition of her iron hand having discarded the scepter for the rod. When the hand of outraged law and justice is raised the blow must fall in order to vindicate the majesty of the law. America has set the foot of the Goddess of Liberty upon the neck of anarchy and crushed the serpent brood.

AFTER THE EXECUTION.

Two hours after the terrible and disagreeable duty of Sheriff Matson had been performed, in the name, and for the peace of the State of Illinois, in the execution of the four condemned anarchists, their bodies had been delivered to their friends, the gallows had been taken down and stowed in its accustomed place, and not one vestige of the awful punishment which had just been inflicted remained to tell that anything out of the ordinary had transpired.

Every good citizen and right-thinking American will join with me in extending to their afflicted widows and orphan children sincere and heart-felt commiseration for the calamity which has befallen them. While the law inflicts punishment for its violation, it does it for the public good. Mercy was not to be considered longer in their case. “Mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent.” The great book of law is prefaced with these words. Justice is the unchanged everlasting will to give each man his right. The right to free speech had been accorded to these men, and it had been abused. Under the diabolical teachings of Herr Most, anarchy promised soon to become the ruling power. But they have, we trust, ascertained that America is a poor and barren soil in which to cause anarchy to grow and flourish. They have found that though the mills of God grind slow, yet they grind exceeding fine.

We shall forever be surprised beyond expression at the words made use of at the funeral of the anarchists on Sunday, November 13, by Captain Black, in his oration over the bodies of these outlaws. He was said to have used the following words:

“For the love of truth they died,” said the orator. “They fought for a cause, believing themselves in the right, and in the years to come they will be loved and revered.”

Captain Black was followed by other speakers who made use of language very expressive and forcible.

T. J. Morgan followed with a speech in which he dwelt on the last words of the men before the drop fell. The immense throng at the grave became excited and frequently interrupted him.

“Let the voice of the people be heard,” he cried, in Parson’s last words. When he spoke of the majesty of the law a voice cried: “Throttle the law!” When he asked: “Shall we be revenged on Bonfield, Grinnell, Gary, and Oglesby?” voices cried: “Yes, yes! Hang them!” Albert Currlin, formerly of the Arbeiter Zeitung, spoke in German and called the laboring men cowards for permitting the “five-fold murder.”