Shortly he returned—not alone; a man was with him—a captive. This could be seen by the thongs which bound him, by his pale face, and frightened, nervous air.
The hunchback led his captive to the tree, and placed him, back against it. Again that hideous chuckle rung out. The captive was standing in the center of the fagots, which the cripple piled closely around him, the pile reaching quite to his shoulders, leaving only his head visible. Then taking a cord from his clothing, he bound the prisoner closely to the tree. Then, stepping back, he contemplated his prisoner, and gave vent to a shrill, maniacal laugh.
“Ha!” he said, pacing softly to and fro before his prisoner, “The work is nearly done. Revenge is sweet—sweet!
“Yes,” he continued, “you are doomed. When the moon casts a shadow over your face, this dagger will be driven to your black heart, and the fagots will burn your foul body from the earth which detests it.
“In three minutes the shadow will cover your face. Robert Davis, have you any last words—any thing to say?”
The prisoner uttered no word—made no sign: but, tied securely to the tree, prepared to meet his doom.
“Once more, Robert Davis, have you any last message? That much will I do for you. I shall not speak again.”
No answer. The shadow crept slowly down the tree toward the doomed man’s face.
All is quiet in Dead-Man’s Forest, to-night. The wild animals are still, and the night is calm. Still creeps the shadow down. To and fro paces the executioner, still watches the prisoner his captor. Still creeps the shadow.
A thousand fantastic shadows play about the moonlit glade, and the prisoner notes them mechanically. One in particular he watches—a shadow stealing on from the glade toward him.