His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. My son went down after his death. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. Save my seat. I understand.
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