The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good—a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp.

a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loop-holed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which pro-truded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge.

The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers sup-porting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners

There are two rules: he cannot finish inside of me, and he cannot touch my green ribbon.

– Tell me about your ribbon, he says. – There is nothing to tell. It’s my ribbon. – May I touch it? – No. – I want to touch it, he says. – No.

On the deck, I kiss him. He kisses me back, gently at first, but then harder, and even pushes open my mouth a little with his tongue.