CHAPTER XII.

THE END OF THE TRANSGRESSOR IS HARD.

It was the day following that which was to have witnessed the execution of Captain Sherwood.

The morning which had first given promise of a beautiful day turned out to be quite disagreeable, and during the afternoon there was a succession of showers. The night was dark and stormy, and vast clouds covered the heavens.

Occasionally, by the assistance of a flash of lightning, Iron Hand might have been seen sitting in his cell--the one in which his brother had been confined. His head was bowed down upon his knees, and his whole appearance was that of despair.

He finally arose, and approaching the grated window, looked out into the darkness. The storm was turning every thing into wild disorder. He seemed to experience a feeling of consolation in seeing nature partake of the tumult that reigned within his own heart.

The thunder growled in the air like the passion and anger in his thoughts; he howled as the hurricane howled, and his voice was lost in the great voice of Nature, who also seemed to groan with despair.

This desperate man’s imagination was a fertile one, and he soon recovered from his dejection and began to put his brains to work in order to concoct some plan of escape. He reclined upon his pallet of straw and thought earnestly.

The hours passed on until the night was well advanced.

At length his attention was attracted by hearing a gentle tap at his window. He started quickly to his feet and listened. Again was the noise repeated.

As he was hurrying across the room to ascertain its cause, there burst forth a peal of thunder accompanied by a flash of lightning, and by the aid of its sickly glare he saw the face of a man appear behind the bars.

He sprung to the window.

“Hank!”

“Yes, chief!” said Hank Putney, for it was he; “but be quiet! be quiet! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through th’ gratin’ of th’ door.”

“Oh! that is all secure; it is too dark for the sentinel to see you, and I will stand with my back against the door.”

“Be ready at the first signal.”

“Ay, my trusty fellow; but make haste;” and he retreated to the door, where he placed himself in such a position that no person without the cell could possibly obtain a view of the window.

Amidst the moaning of the storm Iron Hand could hear the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every flash he perceived the form of Hank Putney.

An hour was spent in breathless suspense; the cold sweat stood upon his brow, and his heart beat quick at every movement he heard in the corridor.

There are hours which seem a year.

At the expiration of an hour, Hank tapped again. Iron Hand hastened to the window. Two of the huge iron bars were removed, forming an opening large enough for a man to pass through.

“Are ye ready?” asked Hank, in a low tone.

“Yes.”

“Then wait till I slide down the rope, ’cause it won’t hold us both; and I’ll get off the walls, and ye can jine me in the woods jist on top of the hill.”

With these parting words, Putney slid down the rope out of Iron Hand’s sight.

When the Tory thought a sufficient time had elapsed for his faithful ally to have reached a place of safety, he passed through the window, and seizing the dangling rope, began to descend slowly. Notwithstanding the weight of his body, the blast of the hurricane made him wave in the air.

The heavy tramp of approaching footsteps was borne to his ears by the wind. He stopped and listened. The patrol were passing along beneath him, laughing and talking. It was a terrible moment for the fugitive as he remained there suspended, motionless and breathless; but the soldiers soon passed, and the noise of their retreating footsteps, together with the murmur of their voices, soon died away.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he continued his descent. He shortly found himself standing upon one of the parapets of the fort. Iron Hand knew perfectly well where he was; for he had been upon this same wall before and reconnoitered; it was the time when those who had seen him had taken him for the captain’s ghost.

The wall was high from the outside, and he knew it would be madness to leap off. But about thirty yards from where he was standing, there was an angle where little steps were cut into the rocks leading to the ground. Could he but reach this place without being perceived, he would be safe.

The storm had increased, the flashes succeeded each other more rapidly, and the thunder growled fiercely. Iron Hand crawled cautiously on his hands and knees, and was near the angle, when there came a bright flash which lighted up the whole heavens.

The sentinel stationed on the wall opposite caught sight of him and fired. The Tory chieftain sprung to his feet, and clasping his hands to his side, he staggered a moment, then uttering a deep groan, fell to the ground within the fort. The report of the sentinel’s rifle aroused the whole garrison, who hastily seized their arms, thinking an attack had been made for the rescue of Iron Hand.

A file of soldiers hastened to the threatened spot, where they found the bloody and apparently lifeless form of the Tory. Two stalwart soldiers lifted him and bore him to the guard-house. The ball had entered his side and the blood was running freely from the wound.

“He’s not dead; run for the surgeon!” said one, feeling his pulse.

An eager crowd was soon gathered around, and by the dim light afforded by one or two torches the scene presented a weird appearance. In a few moments the surgeon was at the side of the wounded man, and applying some restoratives he soon became conscious again. Opening his eyes with a wild stare, Iron Hand glanced around upon the assembly.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Here, in the fort,” said the surgeon.

Raising himself, he looked around him again, and then uttering a wild cry, fell backward.

“What is this strange feeling that comes over me?” he asked in a husky whisper, pressing his hands on his bloody wound. “Am I dying?”

“I fear you are,” responded the surgeon.

“What! dying did you say?” he repeated, in a hollow voice. “My God! must I die?”

“Yes; make your peace with your Maker, for you have but an hour or so longer to live.”

A shudder shook the man’s whole frame, and his eyes glared wildly.

“Where is the man that shot me?” he shrieked, pulling a dirk from his belt.

“No, no, my man,” said the surgeon; “you should think of something else now instead of vengeance.”

“But--but--” the rest of his sentence was inaudible.

Just then the crowd parted to make way for two newcomers, who were drenched with rain. They were Edgar Sherwood and Imogene Lear.

“Maurice!” said Edgar in a low tone, approaching the dying man.

“Great God!” said Iron Hand. “It is he! it is he! I know that voice! Oh! oh! he will kill me, and I can not move. Let me escape--hide me, for I shot him once. I have been his evil shadow all his life!” and he struggled violently to raise himself.

“He raves,” said the surgeon; “we must get that dagger from him, or he may do some mischief.”

But just then the madman dropped the weapon upon the floor.

His face was distorted with agony; his glassy eyes were fixed apparently on some distant object.

“Look! look!” he whispered, pointing to a window at the further end of the room.

All eyes were quickly turned toward the place indicated, but there was nothing strange there.

“It is the old Whig! look! look! see that gaping wound--the gash upon his temple! It was I that did it--I killed him! Hark! hear how he cries for vengeance! See! he comes this way! Oh, horror, horror! he stretches out his hands to seize me--I feel their icy grasp! Oh God! I am dy--dying!” and with a piercing shriek, he fell back upon his couch.

The assemblage gazed upon the expiring man in gloomy silence. It was, indeed, a horrible sight to see him writhing in such agony. Edgar and Imogene, their hearts bowed down with sorrow, turned away; they could not endure the sight.

It lasted, however, but a few moments more. The impress of the hand of Death was on his pallid brow, and straightening out his stiffening limbs, he gave one long, struggling gasp, then all was over.

The surgeon sprung to his side, but the Tory chieftain was--_dead_.