It was not a Christlike prayer—rather the helpless cry of a soul tortured, in the grasp of a Christianized sin.
"Lord God! Down deep in Hell—away down—down where the fire is hottest, and the black blackest, and the smoke thickest, there let the man be bound forever who covers the business of Hell with a respectable covering. There forever let him see my boy's piteous, quivering face; let him hear the dying moan and see the red blood! I know them, God! You know them, God—you know them! Hear my prayer!"
Another gust of wind came, nearer and stronger, and the lamp flickered out. It was quiet. Very quiet. So quiet that Allison and Sammie heard the sigh that escaped the woman's lips. It was a heavy sigh, filled with tears and utter despair.
A sigh that went farther than all the sighing winds had ever gone. A sigh that was wafted far above to the great God who keeps record of the sighs that come up from the hearts of a million drunkards' wives, and who writes on the balance-sheet: "Vengeance is mine. I will repay."
Some people, one of them an officer, entered the house from the opposite side, and the two travelers, seeing no need for their services, turned away and mounted their horses.
Mr. Allison was somewhat excited.
"Hanging is too good for that brute!" he said, loudly. "I believe I could stand by and see him roast. Heavens, what a devil! Poor woman, I wish I had not stopped there to-night."
Sammie grunted. "Thinking of the place she referred to as the respectable dealer's future headquarters?" he questioned.
"Shut up, will you! This is no time for joking!"
The young man complied with the request of his polite friend, and thought to himself, but Mr. Allison was no better pleased. He knew that if he had not seen it, it would have been. It really was. He was deeply stirred. And as he rode on through the night he was thinking new and strange thoughts.