“I have come,” said the divine, nodding to Edgar, “to pray with you.”
Edgar bowed his head, and the two knelt down. The good man’s sonorous voice filled the cell with solemn words. Edgar’s heart beat with wild emotions, and he now felt that every throb was but another herald warning him of death’s near approach.
Upon rising from prayer, he ventured near the window once more and cast another glance at the gallows. A large crowd was collected about it, eagerly waiting to witness the death of Iron Hand, the British spy.
“These are heartless people!” said the minister, looking over Edgar’s shoulder. “But be firm, my poor brother; there is mercy for all before the great Throne of Justice.”
The multitude did not have long to wait. A few moments prior to the expiration of the appointed hour, the prisoner, guarded by several soldiers, came forth.
He was slightly pale, but stood erect, and marched forward with a firm, military step. Approaching the scaffold, they went slowly up the stairs to the platform.
The vast concourse of people were now as one, silent and motionless. Nothing broke the stillness save the hanging rope, which trembled and squeaked as a slight wind swayed it back and forth.
The soldiers of the garrison were drawn up in a square around the gallows, while outside of the guard was the populace. Every elevated place was thronged with spectators.
Edgar advanced to the front of the platform to say a few parting words, but the reports of several rifles in quick succession prevented him. All turned simultaneously to look from whence they came.
A horseman was seen in the distance approaching with flying speed. On, on, he comes—now for a moment lost to view as he plunges through some grove of trees, then quickly emerges again, leaping forth on the open ground, growing larger and larger, until at length he is near enough to be recognized by all, when the cry of “War-Cloud! War-Cloud!” rung upon the air.