While this was acting, Billy Patterson remained pinioned to a stake, a silent spectator, at the distance of only a few feet. So calm and unmoved was he, that no one would have supposed him interested in the events which were occurring. But now the crowd gathered around him, and the Prophet stepping forth, made the same propositions to him which he had made to Teteboxti. Many begged him to accept them, and give up his medicine bag;—his life had been irreproachable and useful, and they wished it spared. He had served his apprenticeship as a gunsmith among the whites, where also he had imbibed the doctrines of Christianity, and to the Prophet's proposition, he replied:—“I am a Christian, and have no connexion with the devil;—you have intimidated one poor old man, but you cannot frighten me,—proceed, and you shall see how a Christian and a warrior can die.” His speech irritated the crowd:—they abused him as a witch, and drawing nearer to him, sat fire to the pile. The fire, at first, burnt slowly, but soon after increasing, it rolled upwards, in a sheet of dense red flame. You might now hear his skin crack and parch, and yet he uttered no murmur or complaint; but, opening a small hymn book, began to sing and pray, with a loud voice. The Indians who surrounded him, danced about with savage glee,—made jocose speeches when his muscles twitched, from the action of the fire, and taunted and reviled him. Yet he quailed not, but sung and prayed, as though he were freed from all bodily suffering. The fire still increased, and a judgment from heaven seemed suddenly to have passed over his persecutors, so silent at once became that noisy rabble. Not a sound was now heard, but the cracking of the fire, or the dropping of blood, as trickling from some fresh wound, it fell upon a burning coal, causing a frying or hissing sound. All gazed in wonder, and each one sorrowed for the part he had borne, when he beheld the firmness of the dying man. His chest still heaved, but he triumphed over nature, for no sound indicated the anguish he suffered. A few moments more elapsed and a skeleton lay doubled up at the foot of the stake, the bones of the right hand, clutching with a strong gripe, a small black smoking substance,—it was the hymn book; and the spirit of Billy Patterson had returned to its God.