The chief closed the door, and Rebecca turned to seek guidance in her troubles.
The savage crew had seized upon the person of Mr. Harris, and dragged him from the house to the place appointed for his torments. A slow fire was to be lighted around him, and his dying moments were to be embittered by their blasphemies, and his pains augmented by the torments which they would inflict before the flame should have done its work.
The good man looked around. William he had heard in the first of the attack, and he now believed him dead. He knew that he had little to fear for Rebecca; her captivity might be irksome, but beyond that they would not injure her. But Pompey, with all his professions, where was he at such a time? How useful he might have been—how consoling, even now, to have seen him near, and to have sent by him messages to his friends. But he was forsaken of all—of all but his enemies; and so he looked upward, to One that had ever been his friend. Release was not to be expected. Mercy, fortitude, resignation—and the good man breathed a fervent prayer.
“The time is up,” said the stern chief, as he opened the door of Rebecca’s chamber. “What say you—life or death to Harris?”
“Let me see my father, even as he is—let me commune with him for one moment, and I will answer.”
The chief led forth the girl; and as he passed two of his men he said, in his own language:
“Watch the house; and when the fire is lighted at the stake, set the house on fire—both the white and black are in it some where. See that none escape.”
Rebecca heard and understood the terrible order.
The young woman ascended the pile, and threw her arms around the neck of Harris.
“My father! my father! must this be?”