40. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINTH.
THE END OF THE PREACHER.
And the horsemen dashed on. Thus another
hour passed away. At length the company
came to a halt, and the bandage was removed
from the Preacher's eyes. Placed on his feet
once more, he gazed around, and found himself
in the centre of a novel scene.
It was a nook in the forest bounded by the
the trunks of colossal trees, and shaded by
their closely matted branches.
Torches, held in the hands of brawny
men, dressed in great coats and armed to the
teeth, gave a red glare to the leaves, to the
massive trees, the forms of the horses, and
the faces of the spectators.
Jervis surveyed these spectators, who encircled
him on every hand. His heart leaped
to his throat, as he recognized many of the
planters, who had graced his marriage supper,
not more than three hours before. And there
too, were sturdy men, from Illinois, whom he
had known during the life of Ellen Lester.
“It's all up with us,” said a voice at his
back — turning suddenly, Jervis beheld a
half naked figure, very short and somewhat
corpulent, whose uncovered back bore the red
marks of a hickory rod. “I could'nt stand
it, Jervis — they struck so awful hard — and
so I owned up. You'd better follow suit.”
The voice and the half naked figure belonged
to the pretended Dr. Baldwin.
“Aint you a purty pair!” the Preacher
knew the voice, and turning, beheld the form
of Ralph, clad in blue jacket and trowsers,
with the tin box in his hand: “To go and
run off with a couple o' orphans in this style!
What do you expect will become o' you, arter
the devil gits you?”
At this point of the scene, another form
advanced. The Preacher knew the face at a
glance, and a fear, such as he had never felt
before, thrilled him in every vein.
It was Charles Lester. Pale, haggard, his
head uncovered, and eyes deep sunken in
their sockets, he advanced from the crowd,
with weaponless hands, and looked into the
Preacher's face without a word.
The Preacher shrank back from that steady
gaze. He could not meet the eye of Lester.
“Friends, you have heard the story of this
man's crimes,” said Lester in a voice unnaturally
calm. “I have followed him for many
an hour, and over many a weary mile —
Edmund Jervis! we have met at last!”
He made a sign to Peter, and Peter came
from the throng of silent spectators, holding a
knotted rope in his hand.
“Mercy! Do not hang me!” cried Jervis,
as his limbs gave way, and he sank to the
ground: “This would be a murder! You
dare not attempt it —”
Peter without a word, tore the white cravat
away, and arranged one end of the cord around
the Preacher's neck. The other end he flung
over the oaken branch which extended above
the kneeling wretch.
“Say the word, and he'll swing,” exclaimed
Peter.
“You dare not murder me!” shrieked the
Popular Preacher, as he felt the rope about
his neck: “Brother Markham, Brother Edmunds,
Brother Finchley, you know me —
you have heard me preach — you will not
permit this outrage!” He turned toward the
persons whom he addressed by name, and
who had sat near him at the marriage festival.
There was no response. The torch light
only revealed a circle of stern and unpitying
faces.
“Mount my friends,” cried Charles Lester.
Before an instant passed every horseman was
mounted again — every one save Peter who
stood beside the criminal. “We rest to-night
at your house, friend Williams, which if I
mistake not, is but a quarter of a mile distant
from this place? The young lady whom we
rescued from the clutches of these villians, is
already there? Is she not?”
The horseman whom he addressed, murmured
assent, and the Preacher heard him
declare that Fanny was sleeping in the mansion,
not more than a quarter of a mile from
the spot where he was kneeling.
“If she was here, she at least would save
me!” he gasped, turning his livid face from
the light.
As for the pretended Dr. Baldwin, he was
borne in the arms of a sturdy horseman, who
had determined — in accordance with the
judgment of the company — to convey him
some miles from the scene, and then set him
free with the convict's stripes upon his naked
back.
“Are you ready?” cried Charles: “Extinguish
the torches, and let us begone!”
With one movement the torches were
dashed to the ground, and the scene was
wrapped in darkness. The sound of hoofs
suddenly broke upon the stillness of the
woods.
“Spare me,” groaned Jervis, when he found
himself alone with Peter — the rope about his
neck and the oaken bough above his head.
Peter did not reply in words, but drew the
limb down toward his breast and tied the rope
firmly around its rugged bark.
When he released his hold the limb sprang
back to its place, and the body of the Preacher
dangled in the air.
“I know'd Ellen,” ejaculated Peter, as he
left the scene, and walked along the path by
which the horseman had disappeared.
