“They were then seized, and after further examination were told that they had been condemned to death. While Nān Chai was giving the reason of the faith that was in him, one of the examiners kicked him in the eye, leaving it bloodshot and causing it to swell till the eye was closed. The arms of the prisoners were tied behind their backs. Their necks were compressed between two pieces of timber (the death-yoke) tied before and behind so tightly as painfully to impede both respiration and the circulation of the blood. They were thus placed in a sitting posture near a wall, and cords were passed through the holes in their ears and tied to a beam above. In this constrained and painful position—not able to turn their heads or bow them in slumber—they remained from Monday afternoon till Tuesday morning about ten o’clock, when they were led out into the jungle and executed.

“When Nān Chai was arrested, his wife started on a run to inform us, supposing that he would be brought to the city to undergo a regular trial. In that case she hoped the missionaries could ensure his release. She had arrived in sight of our house, when a messenger from the head man of the village overtook her, and informed her that if she called on us, it would be at the risk of her life. She returned immediately, to join him at the district chief’s house; but was informed that if she made the least demonstration of grief, she too would be put to death. She sat down by her husband for a time. They conversed together as opportunity offered, being narrowly watched by the merciless guard. The prisoners both said, ‘Oh, if the missionaries were here, we should not have to die!’ Nān Chai’s last words to his wife were, ‘Tell the missionaries that we die for no other cause than that we are Christians.’ One of the guards angrily asked what he had said. She saw that it was best for her to retire, and they parted.

“When Nān Chai knew that he and his comrade were doomed, he said to one of the officers, ‘You will kill us; we are prepared. But I beg you not to kill those who are in the employ of the missionaries. They are not Christians, and are not prepared to die.’ What a triumph of faith in this once fearful disciple! What a noble forgetfulness of self in that earnest request for the lives of others!

“And now, after a long and weary night of painful watching, the morning of Tuesday, the 14th, dawns upon them. The hour is come. They are led out into the lonely jungle. They kneel down. Nān Chai is asked to pray. He does so, his last petition being, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.’ The tenderness of the scene melts his enemies to tears. The heads of the prisoners—prisoners for Jesus’ sake—are drawn back by slightly raising the cruel yoke they have worn for more than twenty hours. The executioner approaches with his club. Nān Chai receives the stroke on the front of the neck. His body sinks to the ground a corpse.... Noi Sunya receives upon the front of his neck five or six strokes; but life is still not extinct. A spear is thrust into his heart. His body is bathed in blood, and his spirit joins that of his martyred brother. Their bodies were hastily buried. Their graves we may not yet visit....

“Only a few days before his death Nān Chai wrote, at Mrs. Wilson’s request, a little slip which she forwarded to her friends as a specimen of the Lāo language. The last line—the last, no doubt, that he ever wrote—contained the following words ‘Nān Chai dai rap pen sit lêo. Hak Yēsū nak’ (Nān Chai has become a disciple. He loves Jesus much).”

X
THE ROYAL COMMISSION

After the despatch of our hurried notes by the Burmese on September 29th, 1869, we felt reasonably sure that our friends would learn the news of our situation, and we were in a measure relieved. But at that time we still believed the reports about the murder of Lung Puk. In fact, it was these reports, which we had just heard before writing the letters sent by the Burmese, that caused the great anxiety expressed in them. But though we poured out our hearts and unburdened our fears to our friends, no one in Chiengmai outside of our two families ever knew the fears that agitated our breasts. For two months or more we still feared that we might be treacherously murdered under colour as though it were done by robbers or dacoits. We knew not on lying down at night what might happen before dawn.

One of the hardest things of the situation was that, in the presence of our own dear children, we felt obliged to speak to each other of these matters by signs alone, since it seemed wise to conceal our fears from them. When we had native callers, or in our visits to the natives, we preached to them just as if nothing had happened. Some that we know were sent as spies to see what we were doing and what we were planning to do, had nothing to report except the Gospel message which they had heard.

Then was the time when a few tried friends endeared themselves forever to us. Among these was the Princess Būa Kam, and the abbot of the Ūmōng monastery, both of whom have been mentioned before. The silver plate with a little rice or fruit from the Princess never ceased to come; and the abbot often made an excuse of errands elsewhere in our neighbourhood that he might have occasion to call and express his sympathy.