"This is your grave. Would you take a look at it?" He held the lantern over the fearful place. The falling waters made in those unimaginable depths the noise of far-off thunders. Half dead with fear already, the wretch looked down into the hideous pit.
"Must I die?" he uttered in a ghastly whisper.
"You must! I will shoot you first in mercy to you; for I am not cruel. Have you prayers to make? I will wait."
Deslow sank upon his knees. He tried to confess himself to God, to commit his soul with decency into His hands. But the words of his petition stuck in his throat: the dread of immediate death absorbed all feeling else.
Pomp, who had retired a short distance, supposed he had made an end.
"Are you ready?" he asked, placing his lantern on the rock, and poising his rifle.
"I cannot pray!" said Deslow. "Send for a minister—for Mr. Villars!—I cannot die so."
"It is too late," answered Pomp, sorrowful, yet stern. "Mr. Villars has been carried away by the soldiers you sent. If you cannot pray for yourself, then there is none to pray for you."
Scarce had he spoken, when out of the darkness behind him came a voice, saying with solemn sweetness, as if an angel responded from the invisible profound,—
"I will pray for him!"