Without another word of protest the jailer receded into the house, leaving the door open, and, led by Pole, the others entered the hallway with a firm tread and mounted the stairs to the floor above. All was still here, and so dark that Baker lighted a bit of candle and held it over his head. Knowing the cell in which Pete was confined, Carson led them to its door. As they paused there and Pole was fumbling with-the keys, a low, stifled scream escaped from the prisoner, and then, in the dim, checkered light thrown by the candle through the bars, they saw the negro standing close against the farthest grating. Pole had found the right key and opened the door.
“It's all up with you, Pete Warren,” he said; “you needn't make a row. You've got to take your medicine. Come on.”
“Oh, my God, my God!” cried the negro, as with great, glaring eyes he gazed upon them. “I never done it. I never done it. Don't kill me!”
“Bring 'im on, boys!” Pole produced an artificial oath with difficulty, for he really was deeply moved. “Bring 'im on!”
Two of the spectres seized Pete's hands just as his quaking knees bent under him and he was falling down. He started to pull back, and then, evidently realizing the utter futility of resisting such an overwhelming force, he allowed himself to be led through the door of the cell and down the stairs into the yard.
“I never done it, before God I never done it!” he went on, sobbing like a child. “Don't kill me, white folks. Gi' me one chance. Tek me ter Marse Carson Dwight; he'll tell you I ain't de man.”
“He'll tell us a lot!” growled Baker, with another of his mechanical oaths. “Dry up!”
“Oh, my God have mercy!” For the first time Pete noticed the coil of rope and the sight of it redoubled his terror. On his knees he sank, trying to cover his eyes with his imprisoned hands, and quivering like an aspen. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Carson Dwight impulsively bent over him, but before he had opened his lips the watchful Baker had roughly drawn him back.
“Don't, for God's sake!” the mountaineer whispered, warningly, and he pointed across the street to the houses near by. Indeed, as if to sanction his precaution, a window-sash in the upper story of the nearest house was raised, and a pale, white-haired man looked out. It was the leading Methodist preacher of the place. For one moment he stared down on them, as if struck dumb by the terror of the scene.
“In the name of Christ, our Lord, our Saviour, be merciful, neighbors,” he said, in a voice that shook. “Don't commit this crime against yourselves and the community you live in. Spare him! In the name of God, hand him back to the protection of the law.”