The red flush left the prisoner’s cheek then. “What–what do you mean?” he gasped.
“You know well what I mean. See here!” Enoch showed him the hole in the breast of his coat. “That was made by your bullet.”
“The boy’s life is charmed!” muttered Halpen.
“You had much better have used your gun-stock, Master Halpen. You would have been surer to kill me then.”
At this an expression of positive terror came into the prisoner’s features. “I am not a murderer,” he exclaimed. “You are mistaken if you think that I fired at you.”
“It is true I cannot prove it,” Enoch replied. “But something else I can prove.” He advanced a step nearer to the man. “Do you remember where you hid the moose hoofs, Simon Halpen?”
The prisoner shrank back against the tree and his eyes fairly glared up at the youth. “You–you—” he gasped.
“Yes. They are found. We now know how my poor father was killed. And you were seen running from the place with his blood upon your clothes and upon your gun. Even your Albany courts would punish you for that!” Then the boy, unable to trust himself longer in the presence of the man who had so injured him, hastily left the spot.
And the prisoner–how did he feel while tied to that tree, waiting for the judgment which was to fall upon him for his crimes? No human being but the criminal himself can ever appreciate half the agony of the condemned. It was long since discovered that the gift of speech was given man to conceal his thoughts. To the man of strong will the face is a mask to conceal his feelings. And Simon Halpen was not a weakling. He may have betrayed some emotion when accused by Enoch; it was a small part only of what he felt.
