Demming could hear the talk, the pitying comments, the praise of the Bishop: “Such a good man!” “His poor daughter, the only child, and her mother dead!” “They were so fond of each other, poor thing, poor thing!” And a soft voice added, “Let us pray!”
“Prayin’,” muttered Demming, “jes’ like wimmen! Laws, they don’ know no better. How’ll I git ter him?”
He began to crawl to the car, dragging his shattered leg behind him, reckless of the throbs of pain it sent through his nerves. “Ef I kin on’y stan’ it till I git ter him!” he moaned. “Burnin’ alive’s harder nor this.” He felt the hot smoke on his face; he heard the snapping and roaring of the fire; he saw the men about the car pull out Jim and his companions, and perceived that their faces were blackened.
“It’ll cotch me, suah ’s death!” said Demming, between his teeth. “Well, ’tain’t much mattah!” Mustering all his strength he pulled himself up to the car window below that from which Jim had just emerged. The crowd, occupied with the helpless rescuers, had not observed him before. They shouted at him as one man: “Get down, it’s too late!” “You’re crazy, you ——!” yelled Jim, with an oath.
“Never you min’,” Demming answered, coolly. “I know what I’m ’bout, I reckon.”
He had taken his revolver from his breast, and was searching through his pockets. He soon pulled out what he sought, merely a piece of stout twine; and the crowd saw him, sitting astride the trucks, while he tied the string about the handle of the weapon. Then he leaned over the prison walls, and looked down upon the Bishop. Under the mass of wood and iron the Bishop lay, unhurt but securely imprisoned; yet he had never advanced to the chancel rails with a calmer face than that he lifted to his friend.
“Demming,” he cried, “you here! Go back, I implore you! You can’t save me.”
“I know thet, Bishop,” groaned the cracker. “I ain’t tryin’ ter. But I cyan’t let you roast in this yere d—— barbecue! Look a yere!” He lowered the revolver through the window. “Thar’s a pistil, an’ w’en th’ fire cotches onter you an’ yo’ gwine suah ’s shootin’, then put it ter yo’ head an’ pull the trigger, an’ yo’ll be outen it all!”
The Bishop’s firm pale face grew paler as he answered, “Don’t tempt me, Demming! Whatever God sends I must bear. I can’t do it!” Demming paused. He looked steadily at the Bishop for a second; then he raised the revolver, with a little quiver of his mouth. “And go away, for God’s sake, my poor friend! Bear my love to my dear, dear daughter; tell her that she has always been a blessing and a joy to me. And remember what I have said to you, yourself. It will be worth dying for if you will do that; it will, indeed. It is only a short pain, and then heaven! Now go, Demming. God bless and keep you. Go!”
But Demming did not move. “Don’ you want ter say a prayer, Bishop?” he said in a coaxing tone,—“jes’ a little mite o’ one fur you an’ me? Ye don’ need ter min’ ’bout sayin’ ’t loud. I’ll unnerstan’ th’ intention, an’ feel jes’ so edified. I will, fur a fac’.”