"A hoard of hungry horror hunters crowd the death chamber like so many sheep, pushing and howling in a most disgraceful manner. Bankers, detectives, prize fighters, lawyers, reporters, saloonists, curbstoners, state officials, drunk and sober, all crowded together in a wild conglomeration. There was no order; all was chaos. Jamming into the reception room the crowd pushed toward the door of the death chamber. Some one leaped upon a chair and leaned far over the shoulders of the crowd. Those in the rear yelled, 'Pull the s-- of a b-- down. Give the rest of us a chance to see.' This was the condition of the social atmosphere at a time when reverence should have uncovered the heads of every one present. How hilarity and mirth could have crept into this horrible death-chamber at such a time, is more mysterious, even than the careless recklessness of the man who walked to the scaffold with a bravado that astonished the most hardened criminals."

In the afternoon Fitzgerald parted from his wife, a bride of only a few months. The parting was anything but sensational. Neither shed a tear--a last embrace, a clasp of hands, a good-bye, and the brave, heart-broken little wife turned from the man who was soon to face his Maker.

Midnight approaches. Busy hands have arranged the last details of the ghastly denouement. The preparations for the taking of another human life are complete. At 12:05 the door leading to the scaffold swings open, and Fitzgerald appeared, with Father Logan, his spiritual adviser, clad in the insignia of his office. "There he is, that's him," came from the crowd as they caught sight of the doomed man, and a still worse push was made by those in the rear. Straight as a die, his handsome and clear-cut features white and ghastly, the doomed man walked out upon the scaffold. Calmly as though walking upon the street Fitzgerald stepped upon the trap, not a twitch of a muscle, not a tremor in his voice, as he bade Dr. Warde good-bye, and thanked him for his kindness.

Father Logan stepped forward and the condemned man kissed the crucifix. As his legs and arms were being pinioned, he stood proud and erect. The only thing unnatural about him was the was the wild glare of his eyes. He gave a contemptuous glance at the sea of upturned faces, then the black-cap shut out his light forever. Deputy Porter stepped quickly back, and signaled the Warden that all was ready. At exactly 12:05 Fitzgerald's body shot through the trap. The body swung gently to and fro for a moment, then the lifeless clay hung without a tremor.