"They'll hang her up on a gallows made of two high posts, with a cross-bar on the top," continued Tom, shuddering at his own words, "and a halter fastened to the cross-bar, which they will tie round her pretty white neck, that Rose used to hug so much."
"Don't, oh, don't!" whispered Paul, putting up his hands; "it makes me tremble all over."
"And so it does me," cried Tom, dashing the tears from his blue eyes. "But you ought to know it just as it is, the burning brand and all."
"The burning brand—what is that?" asked Paul, faintly.
"The hot iron that they stamp M—that's for murderer, you know—on her hand!"
"Oh, me!" sighed Paul. "That petite white hand!"
"Sometimes the courts do that, and let 'em live in Simsbury all the rest of their lives. Sometimes they hang 'em right up. I don't know which they'll do to her."
"But they will do some of these awful things?" questioned Paul, breathing as if he was chilled through with the cold.
"Of course, they've got to do it. The law won't let 'em back out if they wanted to."
"Oh, dear, it makes me feel so wicked," cried Paul, brave thoughts kindling through the pallor of his face. "I want to cry and strike somebody at the same time."