the hypocritical cant of General Dix that officer's selfcondemna-tion, and knows that every breath which the commanding general draws is in default of the penalty which he himself attaches to the violation of the laws of civilized warfare. Even the executioner grows impatient, and cannot endure this ordeal: “Cut it short! Cut it short!” cries he; “the captain wishes to be swung off quick!” The crowd murmurs, and the reporters call his eagerness to perform his office “brutality.” They mistake—he means it in kindness. The reading over, Beall promptly rises and announces his readiness. Then, reverently turning to Dr. Weston, he bows his head, while over him falls from the lips of the minister, like a spotless mantle, the benediction of the Church's ritual: “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you and sustain you!” His manner throughout has been one of respectful attention. But when he mounts the scaffold, and sits down under the fatal coil, he turns his back upon the adjutant while he is reading, and faces in the opposite direction. This attitude he does not change. What does it mean? His face is turned upon his own beloved South. Far over waters, mountains, valleys, and intervening hills, through the deep azure sky travel his thoughts to the land of chivalrous deeds and political ideas which, rightly understood, gather in their scope the eternal years of God's own truth, and for which no man should hesitate to die. As the martyr sets his face towards Jerusalem, so this hero, dying for the faith of his fathers, turns his face upon the South. Thus he faces when the last duty save that of the executioner is performed. The provosmarshal asks him whether he has anything to say. Turning upon the officer of the day, he speaks in a calm, firm voice: “I protest against the execution of this sentence. It is a murder! I die in the service and defence of my country! I have nothing more to say.” A moment after a sword-flash is seen behind him, which is the signal to the executioner, and the hero's soul is free. Thus died, in the thirty-first year of his age, on the scaffold, John Yates Beall. His body, after death, was given to his two faithful friends, whose devotion had halted at no sacrifice in their efforts to save his life, and they laid it privately to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, near New York city.
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