“No!” cried Billy, with a strangled cry. “Me no sorry. White fellow no good; I kill him.”
“Quinn,” cried Facey, “your time’s up.” The first lieutenant’s face was livid, and his hands trembled as he bound Billy’s eyes with a silk handkerchief.
“Stand right there, Billy,” said the officer, turning the prisoner round to face the firing party, that was already drawn up.
“Good-bye, Missy Facey and gennelmen all,” whimpered the boy.
“Good-bye, Billy,” returned the other. “Now, men,” he added, as he ran his eye along the faltering faces, “no damned squeamishness; if you want to help the nigger, you’ll shoot straight. For God’s sake don’t mangle him.
“Fire!”