“Hush gurl! Maybe not,” cries the old man, taking hold of the loose limbs and easing the strain of the rope. “Quick! come under here, catch hold as you see me, an’ bear up wi’ all your strength. I must git my knife out and spring up’ard to git at the durned rope. Thet’s it. Steady, now.”
The young girl has glided forward, and, as directed, taken hold of the hanging limbs. It is a terrible task—a trying, terrible task even for a backwoods maiden. But she is equal to it; and bending to it with all her strength, she holds up what she believes to be the dead body of her playmate and companion. Her young heart is almost bursting with agony as she feels that in the limbs embraced there is no motion—not even a tremor.
“Hold on hard,” urges her father. “Thet’s a stout gurl. I won’t be a minnit.”
While giving this admonition, he is hurrying to get hold of his knife.
It is out, and with a spring upward, as if youth had returned to his sinews, the old hunter succeeds in reaching the rope. It is severed with a “snig!” and the body, bearing the girl along with it, drops to the ground.
The noose is instantly slackened and switched off; the old hunter with both hands embraces the throat, pressing the windpipe back into it; then, placing his ear close to the chest, listens.
With eyes set in agonised suspense, and ears also; Lena listens, too, to hear what her father may say.
“Oh! father, do you think he is dead? Tell me he still lives.”
“Not much sign o’ it. Heigh! I thort I seed a tremble. You run to the shanty. Thar’s some corn whisky in the cubberd. It’s in the stone bottle. Bring it hyar. Go, gurl, an’ run as fast as your legs kin carry ye!”
The girl springs to her feet, and is about starting off.