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The pain of his wound was excruciating, yet Morton answered composedly, “I’d die a thousand times before I would beg my life of you. I am not the first of His Majesty’s service to have lost his life through believing there was honor in an American officer.”

“I’m a citizen of the great Republic and will be doing a patriotic dooty in killing you, and, like Washington, after hanging Andre, will take a good square meal with the satisfactory feeling that there is a red-coat less in the world. But there ain’t no comfort in killing a chick like you. Say, what will ye give, if I let you go? I will take an order on Montreal. Slocum ain’t the man to refuse to earn an honest dollar and do a charitable action. Yer father maybe is a Lord or a Dook, and he can come down handsum. Why don’t yer speak? I ain’t a mind to do all the talking.”

“If I was fool enough to believe you and spare your life it is enough. Torture me not with your dishonorable proposals. I can die as becomes a British soldier.”

“Yer can, eh? Waal, what if I don’t mind to kill you? Perhaps Slocum sees he can make more by toting you into camp. It ain’t every day a British officer is caught and I mout get promotion. Kurnel Slocum would sound well. Come now, hadn’t yer better sign a little order on your father’s agents for a neat little sum, payable to Major Slocum for vally received? Yer wound hurts, don’t it?” enquired Major Slocum with a grin, as he thrust the toe of his boot into it. Involuntarily, Morton gave a stifled shriek of pain and lay gasping, while his tormentor looked down upon him with a smile, enjoying his sufferings. As Morton’s eyes rolled in agony, the sight of Hemlock met their gaze. He was stealing stealthily up behind Slocum, who stood all unconscious of his danger, torturing his victim in the hope he would purchase his release. Nearer the Indian came; his arms now opened out,—he stood behind Slocum,—they closed,—he was in their grasp, and was thrown with a heavy thud on the ground, when, Hemlock bound his arms and legs with his sash. Then, with dreadful calmness, he drew his scalping-knife and knelt, one knee on the breast of the prostrate man. “Many times you have escaped me, Slocum, but you die now. The oki granted what I asked; the spell is gone. I tracked you long, but now you are mine. I will not kill you at once. You shall die by inches, and have a taste, before the dark cloud swallows you, of the bitterness I have drank at your hands for years.”