This part of the hellish ceremony over, a fire was kindled of hickory poles, placed in a circle round the stake, outside of that which his rope allowed Younker to make, in order that he might feel all the torments of roasting alive, without being sufficiently near to the flame to get a speedy relief by death. To add even more torture, if possible, to this infernal proceeding, the Indians would take up brands, and place the burning parts against the old man's body; and then, as they saw him cringe and writhe under the pain thus inflicted, would burst into horrid laughs, in which they were ever joined by the renegade. The old squaws too, and even the children, not wishing to be outdone in this refinement of cruelty, would take slabs, and having loaded them with live coals and ashes, would throw them upon his head and body, until not only both became covered, but the ground around him, so that there was no cool place for his feet; while at every new infliction of pain, the crowd would break forth in strains of wild, discordant laughter. Thus passed some three-quarters of an hour of tortures the most horrible, during which the old man bore up under his sufferings with a strength and manliness that not only astonished his tormentors, but excited for himself, even in savage breasts, a feeling of respect. Girty, it may be, was moved to a similar feeling; for at length, advancing to his victim, he said, in a tone of more deference than he had hitherto used: "You bear up well, old man--well. I have seen many a one die, in a similar way, who was thought to be courageous--yet none with that firmness you have thus far displayed." Younker, who was slowly walking around the stake, with his face bent toward the earth, suddenly paused, as Girty addressed him, and turning his eyes mildly upon the renegade, in a feeble voice, replied: "My firmness is given me from above. I can bear my torments, Simon Girty, for they're arthly, and will soon be over; but yourn--who'll say what yourn'll be, when you come to answer afore Almighty God for this and other crimes! But that arn't for the like o' me to speak of now. I'm a dying man, and trust soon to be in a better world. Ef I ever did you wrong, Simon Girty, I don't remember it now; and I'm very sartin I never did nothing to merit this. You came to my house, and war treated to the best I had, and here am I in return for't. Howsomever, the reckoning's got to come yit atween you and your God; and so I leave you--farewell." "But say," returned Girty, who now seemed greatly moved by the manner and tone of Younker: "But say, old man, that you forgive me, and I will own that I did you wrong."