“Mabbe,” he chuckled; “the byes knowed me moind on that p’int; an’ they knowed the ould divil wad be the wan to swear away me liberty, if he’d a chance; but dead men tells no tales.”
“I wisht they’d let him live,” she sighed; “’twould have been better fer you.”
Then she went on to tell him what she had overheard the men at the river say about the probability of an attempt to lynch him.
While this talk was going on at the jail window, a wagon filled with masked and armed men was driving toward the town from the direction of Fairfield, another along the road leading from Frederic, a third coming from Riverside, while a fourth waited at the bridge over the river at Prairieville, where the other three presently joined it. Then falling into line, they drove up the street that led to the jail.
As they neared the building the creaking of their wheels struck upon Belinda’s ear.
“Oh, what’s that?” she cried, in startled tones, though half under her breath. “Wagons—one, two, three, four—and stoppin’ right out there, every one of ’em!”
“So they are, an’ all’s up wid me!” cried Phelim, hoarsely, adding a volley of oaths, as he grasped the bars and shook them fiercely in the frantic but vain effort to wrench them off.
The men were already alighting and pouring into the jail yard; then came a thundering knock upon the outer door, accompanied by a demand for instant admittance.
The trembling pair at the cell window were still listening, Phelim clinging to the bars, Belinda leaning heavily against the outer wall, while her heart beat almost to suffocation and her breath came gaspingly. They heard a second-story window raised and the jailor’s voice in parley with the would-be intruders.
“What is wanted, gentlemen?” he asked.