Even the hangman couldn't stand it, but turned away.

When all was ready the priest gently pulled and tugged and forced the child out of the mother's arms, and stepped quickly out of her reach; but she clasped her hands, and made a wild spring toward him, with a shriek; but the rope--and the under-sheriff--held her short.

Then she went on her knees and stretched out her hands and cried: "One more kiss--oh, my God, one more, one more,--it is the dying that begs it!" She got it; she almost smothered the little thing.

And when they got it away again, she cried out: "Oh, my child, my darling, it will die! It has no home, it has no father, no friend, no mother--" "It has them all!" said that good priest.

"All these will I be to it till I die." You should have seen her face then! Gratitude?
Lord, what do you want with words to express that?
Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.