He lifted his voice, addressing the white-clad figure in front of him:
“Lady,” he entreated, “does you fergive me fur shootin’ yore husband six times wid a fo-ty-fo’ caliver revolover?”
Excepting that her under lip jutted out a trifle farther there was no sign she had heard him. She calmly fanned on.
The darky on the scaffold tried again:
“Lady,” he pleaded, “for de secont time I axes you, ain’t you please ma’am, gwine fergive me?”
Still from her there was no response. It was as though she had not heard him. The sympathetic sheriff felt moved to add his intercession:
“Aunt Myra,” he called, “Jim, here, will be goin’ away from us in a minute and we don’t expect him back. Surely you don’t entertain any hard feelin’s against him now? Won’t you speak to him and let him go in peace?”
This time the obdurate widow shook her head in an emphatic negative. Yet still she uttered no sound. The sheriff turned to the condemned.
“Jim,” he said, “you see how it is; that old woman is set in her ways. What’s the use of wastin’ any more time on her? Besides, it’s hot as the devil out here and I ought to be gettin’ on home to dinner. Just hold still a second and we can have this all over.”
“Mr. Lucas,” sobbed Jim, “lemme see ef I still can’t sof’en dat nigger woman’s stony heart. Lady,” he cried out, “wid mouty nigh my dyin’ bre’f I begs you fur jest a word. I ain’t hopin’ no mo’ dat you’ll fergive me, but won’t you please, ma’am, jest speak to me?”