The silence silences, as if explain. caught, and now, caught again, caught up with by the past. After twenty-five years here, at last. The end crowns the work. The witnesses are like this poor waxwork, as if them the crown was designed to kill, but even more, shockingly, still, until his, despite the straps, nervous twitching stops, Then some suddenly gasp, like him. Of the rich purple and scarlet trim of the blotches and the trickle of blood nothing can yet be seen, or should. To shudder, To think they leave-as they leave- unlinked.