“Why, why, the lamp’s gone out!” He quickly crossed the space to the table and extended his hand to turn up the lamp.
The figure behind him seized his arm and a guttural voice spoke through the mask:
“There’s light enough for our work, Judge.”
Butler staggered back in terror and glanced about him at the dim spectres closing around the table. With an effort he pulled himself together and stammered:
“Why, of course, boys. I see! I see! You’re going to initiate me! give me the third degree first—I see—a good joke!”
“You’ll find it a serious joke before you’re through,” replied the leader, gripping his dagger.
The Judge could see the movement of his hand as he slowly drew the knife from its sheath, the blade glistening for an instant in the dim lamplight, but he still thought the boys were playing a prank on him.
“Well, gentlemen, have your fun!” he cried with forced gaiety, “Have your way, I’m at your service. What is the penalty I must pay to-night for my many sins against the Klan?”
“The penalty is your life,” said the mask with sullen menace in his tones, stepping closer, “unless you agree to leave this state to-morrow and never enter it again—will you go?”
“So bad as that?” The Judge forced a laugh. “What else?”