“What! do you plot in the very jaws of death?” cried O’Neill, springing back. “Fire and furies! I’ll settle that question before the break of day. Boys, are your muskets loaded?”
A tall sergeant answered in the affirmative.
“I’m going to exterminate the Night-Hawks of the fire-lands,” continued the angry colonel, turning to Funk again. “As you are their leader, you should be the last survivor. Kings often witness the destruction of their kingdoms. Ready to die, I suppose, Roy Funk?”
“Ready!” was the firm response.
“What would you do did I stand in your shoes and you in mine?”
“I’d shoot you down like a dog!”
“But I’m more merciful. I’m going to grant you a soldier’s death, for you have fought for the flag of our king.”
Then six soldiers were selected as executioners, and Whalley and Zigler were placed side by side, fifteen paces from the muzzles of the leveled muskets. Royal Funk was taken aside and closely guarded on a spot from whence he could witness the death of the last of his band.
He spoke to the doomed men and bade them die game, which they promised to do.
Whalley and Zigler were brave men. They had faced death in the covert, before stern vigilance committees, and the field of battle, and they were not the persons to become frightened at the monster’s hideous visage now.