It was the day following that which was to have witnessed the execution of Captain Sherwood.
The morning which had first given promise of a beautiful day turned out to be quite disagreeable, and during the afternoon there was a succession of showers. The night was dark and stormy, and vast clouds covered the heavens.
Occasionally, by the assistance of a flash of lightning, Iron Hand might have been seen sitting in his cell—the one in which his brother had been confined. His head was bowed down upon his knees, and his whole appearance was that of despair.
He finally arose, and approaching the grated window, looked out into the darkness. The storm was turning every thing into wild disorder. He seemed to experience a feeling of consolation in seeing nature partake of the tumult that reigned within his own heart.
The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in his thoughts; he howled as the hurricane howled, and his voice was lost in the great voice of Nature, who also seemed to groan with despair.
This desperate man’s imagination was a fertile one, and he soon recovered from his dejection and began to put his brains to work in order to concoct some plan of escape. He reclined upon his pallet of straw and thought earnestly.
The hours passed on until the night was well advanced.
At length his attention was attracted by hearing a gentle tap at his window. He started quickly to his feet and listened. Again was the noise repeated.
As he was hurrying across the room to ascertain its cause, there burst forth a peal of thunder accompanied by a flash of lightning, and by the aid of its sickly glare he saw the face of a man appear behind the bars.
He sprung to the window.