“For the last time—will you obey?”
“No.”
Again the drawing of the death-lottery was gone through, this time even more deliberately than before. Evidently Morton was anxious to put Colton to death, from some reason of his own. During its progress, the attitude of the prisoner—for such he now was—did not change, but his features altered greatly. His resolution seemed dying out as he noted the cool nonchalance with which the lots were drawn. Life appeared more and more dear to him.
“It’s me,” uttered Thompson, with a coarse laugh. “Well, Colton, my boy, since it’s so, reckon I must. How’ll you hev it—lead or steel?”
“Neither. Spare me—do not murder me!” gasped the young man, pale and trembling.
“You know the alternative,” coldly replied Morton. “Do your duty and you are safe.”
“You are not jesting—you mean this?”
“Yes. Strike the blow that avenges Israel Hackett, and we will forget that you refused to do your duty.”
“I will do it. I did not think it was so hard to die; and he did treat me mean—like a dog—he even kicked me!” muttered Colton, tremblingly.
Morton’s eye gleamed. This sudden change seemed to please him greatly. Thompson looked on in disgust. He felt only contempt for this pitiful craven.