“Page,” said he, “I have done all in my power to save you, because I believed you less guilty than the others, but I find I can do more. Whether you live or die now remains with yourself. Your old friend, Captain Ankeny, has worked hard for you.”
As he said this, the party came to the door of the room where the ropes were suspended, which had been purposely opened. The hideous preparations glanced upon the terror-stricken vision of the trembling prisoner. Beachy slammed the door with a crash, exclaiming, with well-simulated anger, as he turned to the attendants,
“I told you to keep that door closed,” and resumed his conversation with Page.
“There is,” said he, “a bare chance remaining for you. Your comrades are still living. They have each made a confession, and now the opportunity is afforded you. If you make a clean breast of it, and tell the truth, it is possible you may escape by turning State’s evidence; but if not, there is no alternative but to hang you all. One thing let me say: if you conclude to accept this possible chance for life, tell the truth.”
“I certainly will do so, Mr. Beachy,” said the terrified man.
He was then seated in front of the clerk at the table. Beachy sat on one side, holding one of the documents, as if to compare his testimony with it, and Captain Ankeny and another person, each with a similar document, sat opposite. The building was of logs. A gathering outside could be heard through the chinks, discussing the propriety of admitting Page to testify.
“He is as guilty as the others, and should suffer the same fate,” said one.
“It’s nonsense to try them,” said another. “The Vigilantes should hang them all immediately.”
“It’ll do no harm to hear what he has to say,” said a third, “but he’ll probably lie.”
“Not if he regards his life. He’ll be easily detected in that, and then he’ll be hung without mercy,” remarked another.