As he said nothing more, the jailer went away, and Bumpus, after heaving two or three very deep sighs, attempted to partake of his meager breakfast. The effort was a vain one. The bite stuck in his throat; so he washed it down with a gulp of water, and, for the first time in his life, made up his mind to go without his breakfast.
A little before twelve o'clock the door again opened, and the surly jailer entered, bearing a halter, and accompanied by six stout men. The irons were now removed from Bumpus's wrists, and his arms pinioned behind his back. Being almost stupefied with amazement at his position, he submitted without a struggle.
"I say, friends," he at last exclaimed, "would any amount of oaths took before a maginstrate convince ye that I'm not a pirate, but a true-blue seaman?"
"If you were to swear from this time till doomsday it would make no difference. You admit that you were one of the Foam's crew. We now know that the Foam and the Avenger are the same schooner. Birds of a feather flock together. A pirate would swear anything save his life. Come,—time's up."
Bumpus bent his head for a minute. The truth forced itself upon him now in all its dread reality. But no unmanly terrors filled his breast at that moment. The fear of man or of violent death was a sensation which the seaman never knew. The feeling of the huge injustice that was about to be done filled him with generous indignation; the blood rushed to his temples, and, with a bound like a tiger, he leaped out of the jailer's grasp, hurling him to the ground in the act.
With the strength almost of a Samson he wrestled with his cords for a few seconds; but they were new and strong. He failed to burst them. In another moment he was overpowered by the six men who guarded him. True to his principles, he did his utmost to escape. Strong in the faith that while there is life there is hope, he did not cease to struggle, like a chained giant, until he was placed under the limb of the fatal tree which had been selected, and round which an immense crowd of natives and white settlers had gathered.
During the previous night the Widow Stuart had striven to save the man whom she knew to be honest; for Gascoyne had explained to her all about his being engaged in his service. But those to whom she appealed, even on her knees, were immovable. They considered the proof of the man's guilt quite conclusive, and regarded the widow's intercession as the mere weakness of a tender-hearted woman.
On the following morning, and again beside the fatal tree itself, the widow plead for the man's life with all her powers of eloquence; but in vain. When all hope appeared to have passed away, she could not stand to witness so horrible a murder, she fled to her cottage, and, throwing herself on her bed, burst into an agony of tears and prayer.
But there were some among the European settlers there who, now that things had come to a point, felt ill at ease, and would fain have washed their hands of the whole affair. Others there were who judged the man from his countenance and his acts, not from circumstances. These remonstrated even to the last, and advised delay. But the half-dozen who were set upon the man's death—not to gratify a thirst for blood, but to execute due justice on a pirate whom they abhorred—were influential and violent men. They silenced all opposition at last, and John Bumpus finally had the noose put round his neck.
"O Susan! Susan!" cried the poor man, in an agony of intense feeling, "it's little ye thought your Jo would come to such an end as this when ye last sot eyes on him—an' sweet blue eyes they wos, too!"