"A pardon? If they don't shoot us, I'll give you my word of honour they will hang us before to-morrow night."
"I don't mean a full pardon," whispered the wretch, as if choking with fear; "not to pardon us so that we may go about; but perhaps they'll lock us up—say five years, ten years, I would not mind twenty years, and whip us every month, and make us starve and work—I would not mind it in the least, if they don't hang us. Don't you think, Viola, they would pardon me, if I were to beseech them—if I were to go down upon my knees, intreating them to spare my life. You see, Viola, I am so young. I never killed anybody! I never hit any one to-night!"
"Poor fellow!" said Viola, as he gently disengaged his hand from the trembling grasp of his comrade, "don't tell these things to me—tell your judges.—But what is this!" cried he, pointing to a corner of the hut—"what is that smoke?"
"The hut is on fire!"
"Hurrah!"
"Let fly at them! Exterminate them! Kick them back into the fire!" shouted Mr. Skinner, outside.
"They have put fire to the hut!" cried Viola, shuddering.
Ratz Andor opened his eyes, and, half leaning on his hands, he looked around. "Don't be caught alive;" gasped he, "and, if you can, shoot the judge, and die as a man!"
These were the robber's last words; for, raising his pistol, he pressed the muzzle to his head. His hot blood fell on Viola's hands.
"Our father!" groaned the butcher, kneeling down—"they'll burn us to cinders—which art in heaven—give me the bottle, I'll put it out—Heaven help us, it is brandy—it burns like hell—hallowed be thy name—Viola, you're the death of us—and forgive us—why did you steal the notary's papers?"