“Help! help! cut the rope! Oh, God! mercy! mercy! mercy! Iron Hand!—old man!—Hank Put—! I’ll t—t—t—” His voice was hushed. The words, whatever they were, assumed only a gurgling sound in his throat, then died away in nothingness.
His limbs were slowly contracted, then as slowly straightened out again. His hands were tightly clenched. The finger-nails penetrated the flesh, making wounds from which nearly stagnant blood slowly oozed, pattering in drops on the leaves below.
He made a spasmodic effort to release his arms, but they fell quivering by his side. A slight, convulsive shudder shook his frame, and the soul of the Tory passed to its Maker.
Just at that moment a blast of wind, like a solemn dirge, swept through the forest, chanting, as it were, the dead man’s requiem. The body was left swinging in the breeze, as a warning to all evil-doers, or until chance should direct the footsteps of some stragglers to the spot.
Thoughtful, and pondering on the ruffian’s dying words, the dragoons returned to the house, there to deliberate what next should be done. After a short debate, they concluded to go back to the fort in the morning, as it was evident that the abducting party had either discovered their approach and fled or had departed before their arrival.
In either case they would reach the British lines before daylight, and as it was impossible to follow the trail by night, the dragoons were obliged to abandon the pursuit.
Making themselves as comfortable as possible, the troopers waited patiently until dawn, when they returned to the fort to make known the result of the expedition.
CHAPTER VII.
THE SECRET MISSION.
The cool night air awakened Imogene from the unconscious state into which she had fallen when first seized by her abductors.
Staring wildly around the apartment in which she was confined, she was unable to account for her strange position. Pressing her hot hands to her throbbing temples she tried to collect her scattered thoughts.