University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“No! No!” I exclaimed at waking, which I
did early,—“my neck was never made for a halter.”
I tried to raise my hands to it as if to assure
myself that there was not one already around
it, but the ropes with which I had been bound,
and which, for the moment, I had forgotten,
checked somewhat the exulting nature of my
thoughts, as they checked the movements of my
arms. I had been dreaming of the events which
had taken place, and my exclamation was probably
due to the character of my dreaming
thoughts. I now repeated it, as if to assure myself,
but it called up as unpleasant and unnatural
an echo, as ever was heard in Killarney. The
voice of Bud Halsey, speaking outside, replied:

“That's a matter about which no man is sure
for thirty minutes. In fifteen, a cord may be adjusted,
and where the woods are convenient, the
affair may be all over in twenty. In your case,
it still depends upon yourself whether you escape
the present danger. You have still a few minutes
to sunrise!”

The suddenness of the response, its character,
and the character of the man by whom it was
spoken, all combined to send a chill through my
body, which it had not felt before. The next

moment the door opened, and he appeared before
me. You have already had a description of the
man, but now there was a sly grin upon his features
which they did not usually wear, and which
seemed to betray a sort of satisfaction which he
yet labored to discourage and keep down. The
effort of a man passionate by nature, to subdue
the show of impulses which are yet grateful, will
usually result in some such conflict upon the features,
than which, perhaps, there is nothing more
unpleasant to behold. I had much rather seen
him furious.

“Well, young man,” he said, entering, “the
time is at hand for your final answer. You have
till sunrise. It will not be ten minutes before you
see his red streaks on the top of that pine. Bring
him out, men, that he may see more easily.”

His orders were obeyed, and I found myself,
still bound hand and foot, laid down before the
door of the dungeon which I had just occupied.
I now felt the cold, which I had not experienced
to any very unpleasant degree during the night.
But now I was chilled and uncomfortable, and
what with the rigid position in which my limbs
were fixed, and the effect of the keen morning
breeze upon me, coming out suddenly as I did
from one of the closest log houses, my teeth almost
chattered. I fancied that the outlaw perceived
my discomfort, and that he probably ascribed
it to another cause, for his features put on
that same expression of a satisfaction, which he

yet labored to conceal. It was with some effort
of will, that I succeeded in keeping down my
tremors. There were some four persons, stout
ruffians, loitering about. One was busy in building
a fire, two others stood apart at some little
distance, conversing in low tones together and
looking occasionally at me, while, directly at my
side, sat a fourth, coolly disentangling a plough-line,
the probable uses of which I did not venture
to conjecture. But it did not help much to lessen
my shivering tendency.

“Step back a moment, Warner,” said the outlaw
to this assistant. “The lad has little time
for talk.”

The fellow did as he was bidden. He looked
upon me as he moved away, and I fancied that I
knew his features. I had seen him gazing at me
once before, while I walked with Helen, and it
then seemed to me that I had seen him elsewhere.
I was now sure of it,—but where? At all events,
if he ever knew me before, there was every reason
to apprehend that he also would remember
me. But I had not time to think of him. When
he had withdrawn, Bud Halsey began, as he always
did, with sufficient abruptness.

“Well, young man! the time is at hand for
your final answer. You may not know me—you
may think me jesting,—anything, but serious—
but look you, as I live, and as the sun shines,—
by Heaven, or by Hell, there is but one escape
for you from death, and that is by marriage with
my niece. Nothing else can save you; and, but

for what I suppose to be her situation, her feelings,
and those of Bush Halsey, who has very
much the feelings of a girl—but for them, even
this choice should not be allowed you. Nay, to
show you how large is the concession which I
make, I tell you that I now know you to be the
son of one of my deadliest enemies, one of those
men who have made me what I am, and to whom
I owe nothing but undying hate. Your father, in
his official capacity, as Judge of the Supreme
Court of Alabama, robbed me, by an unrighteous
decision, of lands and fortune. Enough, Master
Henry Meadows, otherwise Colman, you see
where you are, what is known of you, and expected,
and what you have to expect. You see the
men are in waiting, the cord is ready, and you
are already under the tree from which you may
be suspended. It has borne as stout a man before.”

He turned from me as he spoke, and joined the
two men who were conversing at a little distance,
said a few words to them, pointed towards me,
then disappeared in the wood. But a few moments
had elapsed, when he again came in sight,
and approached me.

“Your answer, Henry Meadows?”

The smile had disappeared from his features.
The face was savage and stern in the extreme.
There was nothing there of encouragement, and
during his absence my own reflections were of a
confused and conflicting character. I need not
say that I could not convince myself of the earnestness

and sincerity of the man—I could not persuade
myself, that such a destiny was really contemplated
for me. My pride determined my
course. Was I to be made a laughing-stock, a
butt—pointed at as one scared into marriage—
led to the altar, through dread of the halter!—
even the jingle of the words suggested itself to
me at the moment, and the thought that such a
jingle would commend the anecdote, in future
days at my expense, contributed to strengthen
me in my resolution of defiance. My answer
was ready.

“I defy you, Sir. Do with me as you please,
But you shall not force me to your purpose.”

He hesitated—gazed at me for a moment, as I
fancied, with an expression of chagrin, and then
replied:—

“Very well, young man,—as you please! I
have done all that I could—more than I ever expected
to do to save any one caught in your situation.
Your blood upon be your own head. Ho!
fellows!”

He waved his hand and the subordinates drew
nigh.

“Are you ready? Secure your man!”

In the twinkling of an eye, I was caught up
and placed upon my feet, while the fellow named
Warner, adjusted the defiling cord about my
neck, and, with the end in his hand, proceeded to
climb the tree under which I stood. I writhed
in my bonds—I could not struggle, for hand and
feet were equally secured. But my writhing

was in vain. Indeed, so well fastened had I been,
that, but for the support of one of the outlaws, I
could not have kept my feet. The moment
was one of unmixed horror. I began to fear
that the farce was to become a tragedy. I looked
searchingly into the face of the outlaw, but it
expressed nothing but the most dogged determination.
The sun, at the same instant, threw a
golden crown upon the brow of a towering pine,
some thirty yards in advance of the spot where I
stood. I shivered! Where was Bush Halsey?
Where Helen? My head seemed to swim. I
was growing blind. Father, mother!—could this
all be true! was I thus doomed! Torn from you,
to see you never more! I felt that my senses
were insecure—that I could no longer depend
upon them,—but I could hear—hear every syllable,
every breathing. That one faculty seemed
to grow doubly acute at the expense of all the
rest. There was a whispering among the accessories.
Then came the deep but low words
of the principal.

“Run him up! There's no use to wait. He's
pluck to the last. He'll die game!”

I felt the motion—my feet were gone from
under me. I strove to cry aloud, but the words
subsided into a husky murmur, and I resigned
myself—how—with what grace—with what hope
—with what thoughts, if any,—to the last terrible
change!—when, sudden, I heard a cry—a piercing
shriek—I knew the tones of that voice—I

knew the nature of that cry! The voice was
Helen's,—the cry—oh! God! it was the lost
woman's appeal—for mercy, mercy, mercy! I
too strove to echo the cry, but I was choking.
I could hear the hollow gurgling of the breath in
my own throat—I could feel it!—That was all!