One Friday Klove was hanged.
The public prints of the following day were filled with details of the
occurrence, and Mrs. Applegate, mindful of the doctor's injunctions,
strove to keep her brother from reading them. A futile effort, though,
for Mr. Heath, on finding that the newspapers were not brought to him at
the usual time, rang the bell violently, and rated the servant soundly
for the omission.
The magnifico was in his chamber, and looked as aged as a man of eighty.
His hair and beard had turned white, his eyes were cavernous and
feverishly bright. Roused momentarily by the incident just mentioned, he
returned to his seat in an arm-chair near the fire, where, wrapped in a
dressing-gown, he had probably passed the night, as his couch was
undisturbed. He soon relapsed into a gloomy meditation, holding in his
hands the folded newspaper, which he apparently hesitated and dreaded to
read. Suddenly, with an effort, his fingers spread the sheet open, and
he scanned the columns rapidly until his eyes rested on the account of
Klove's execution. To an unusually long description of the horrible
affair was appended what purported to be the confession of the
malefactor, made to the clergyman in attendance, and reported verbatim.
It ran thus: