“An’ am I really goin’ to be hanged?”
“Till you’re dead as mutton.”
“That’s entertainin’, ain’t it, Toozle?” cried poor Bumpus with a laugh of desperation, for he found it utterly impossible to persuade himself to believe in the reality of his awful position.
As he said nothing more, the jailer went away, and Bumpus, after heaving two or three very deep sighs, attempted to partake of his meagre 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 stupified 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 to 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.