Morton bowed and asked if the sentence had been confirmed by the commanding-officer. “It has been submitted and approved,” was the reply.
“In the brief space of time that remains to me,” said Morton in a firm voice, “may I crave the treatment that befits my rank in so far that I may be furnished with facilities for writing a few letters?”
“You may remain here and when done writing, the guard will conduct you back whence you came, there to remain until execution.” With these words he rose, and the others followed, leaving Morton alone with the clerk and the captain of his guard. He wrote three letters,—to Major Stovin, to his colonel, and the longest to his relatives across the Atlantic,—being careful in all to say nothing about Hemlock, for he suspected the Americans would read them before sending. When done, he was taken back to the stable, and left in darkness. He had abandoned all hope: his voyage across life’s ocean was nearly ended, and already he thought the mountain-tops of the unknown country he was soon to set foot upon loomed dimly on his inward eye. The hour which comes to all, when the things of this life shrink into nothingness, was upon him, and the truths of revelation became to him the only actualities. The communings of that time are sacred from record: enough to say, they left a sobering and elevating influence on his character. He was perfectly composed when he heard the guard return, and quietly took his place in the centre of the hollow square. On the field used as a parade ground he saw the troops drawn up in double line. At one end were the preparations for his execution, a noose dangling from the limb of a tree and a rough box beneath to serve as his coffin. There was not a whisper or a movement as he passed slowly up between the lines of troops. It seemed to him there was unnecessary delay in completing the arrangements; and that the preliminaries were drawn out to a degree that was agonizing to him. At last, however, his arms were pinioned and the noose adjusted. The officer who had presided at his trial approached “By authority of the General,” he whispered, “I repeat the offer made you: assist us to secure the murderer of Major Slocum and you get your life and liberty.”
Morton simply answered, “Good friend, for Jesu’s sake, leave me alone.”
The word was not given to haul the tackle and Morton stood facing the assembled ranks for what seemed to him to be an age, though it was only a few minutes. The bitterness of death was passed and the calmness of resignation filled his soul. Again the officer spoke, “What say you, Lieutenant Morton?” Morton merely shook his head. Presently a horseman was seen to leave the General’s quarters and an orderly rode up. “By command of the General, the execution is postponed.” Morton’s first feeling was that of disappointment.
As he was hurried back to the stable, the order dismissing the troops was given. As they broke up, a soldier remarked to his comrade, “They’d sooner have him squeal than stretch his neck.”
CHAPTER V.
On the afternoon of the second day after the events of last chapter, Allan Forsyth returned from his daily visit to Camp la Fourche excited and indignant. “What think ye,” he said to his wife and Maggie, “Lieutenant Morton is in the hands o’ the Yankees and they’re gaun to hang him.”