A bitter smile passed over the face of the outcast as he saw the agony of his prisoner—a smile that spoke of triumph and revenge—but it was only for a moment, and when he again spoke, his voice was calm and resolute.
“And does the high-spirited and haughty blood of the Wilson’s deign to supplicate me? Me! the outcast they once spurned. To what am I indebted for this favor? But no!” and sinking his voice into that of a person fearful of his own passions, he proceeded, “I offer her this hand—if she accept it you are free, if not, you die—not the death of a man, but the death of a dog. And still she shall be mine.”
For the first time since the captain of the gang had made his appearance, Emma raised her eyes to those of her brother. She heard the determination of the ruffian, and knew from his previous acts that to will and to do was the same with him. Nerving herself, therefore, for the contest, she said:
“Do your worst—I never will be yours. Your hand struck down my gray-haired father when he knelt to you, and your hand raised the torch to the family roof-tree, and sent us, homeless orphans, out upon the world. It can but be death, and that is paradise compared to a life with you.” And then turning to her brother, she continued—“George, I would do all to save you but dishonor myself and our spotless name—that I cannot do—forgive me—that is a sister’s resolve.”
“Bless you, Emma, for those words—now I can die.” And sinking his voice, he continued—“But there still may be hope—our men cannot be far off, and if Seaton did but know of this.” The paleness of his sister’s cheek told George he had touched a tender chord, and hastening to redress the wound he had inflicted, he said—“I do not entirely despair, if I could but gain a few hours; the captain is still in the field, and there is still hope.”
The leader had now left them, and the brother and sister now talked of the past, and Emma’s heart was fast telling her, as the name of Seaton was mentioned, that she had long and fondly loved him. But this reverie was interrupted by the return of the outlaw, who had been talking with some of his band. Advancing still closer to Emma, he said:
“Have you decided?—the time has come, and I am in no mood for trifling—remember, this is the last chance for your brother’s life.”
“I remember,” replied Emma, “and I have decided—for death—both of us, for I survive not him.” And drawing a small knife from her bosom, she said—“Now leave us.”
“ ’Tis well—you will find me no sluggard in the fulfillment of my promises,” said the other, his voice hoarse with suppressed passion. “Here, guard, hang this rebel to the nearest tree; we will find if his high-bred sister can act as well as talk.”
Obedient to their leader’s command, the outlaws seized upon the prisoner, and leading him to a little distance from the spot where his sister sat, commenced the horrid preparations for his death. Shading her eyes with her hands, Emma sat mute and motionless, the picture of despair. In haste the fated noose was made and fastened around the neck of the captive, and now all was ready. Again did the heartless villain urge the sister to accept the offer of his hand, but this time in mere mockery; but the words of her brother, as he blessed her for the resolve, came to her and she sat mute. Stung by this display of courage, the ruffian now gave the word for the completion of the execution.