The heavy door of the cell swung back, and for a moment the little apartment was flooded with light from a lamp held high in the hand of one of the masked intruders.
He stood aside while four or five of his company filed rapidly in, and laid hold of the prisoner with no gentle hands.
Phelim saw at a glance that resistance was useless. With a face pale as death, eyes almost ready to start from their sockets, quivering lips, and in a tone that he vainly endeavored to make steady and defiant, “What are yees afther, sors?” he demanded. “Yees haven’t anny roight to be comin’ in here, fer I’m undher the pertection o’ the law.”
But even while he spoke they had pinioned his arms, and now surrounding him, they led him out through the corridors, the outer door, the jail-yard, and into the grove, where they halted with him under a large oak-tree.
A man was seated on its largest branch with a rope in his hand, one end of which he had already attached to the limb; at the other was a noose, which was quickly adjusted about Phelim’s neck; then he was forced to mount into a wagon that had been driven up under the tree.
He kicked, cursed, and swore fearful oaths, but found resistance vain; strong hands pulled, pushed, and lifted him into the vehicle and held him there.
“Now,” said a stern voice, “you have but five minutes to live; better stop cursing and spend your breath in prayer.”
“Yees are murtherin’ me; ye’re goin’ further nor the law o’ the State, black-hearted scoundrels that ye are!” he cried, fiercely.
“You are receiving the due reward of your deeds,” answered the voice. “The minutes are going; better spend your last breath in an effort to save your soul.”
The curses died on the lips of the ruffian; he looked up at the starlit sky, down and around on the crowd of dark figures and masked faces.