“No, Emma, murderer as he is, he dare not do this; and if death must come, it would be nothing compared to the union with a wretch like this.” But then as the helpless condition of that sister, already in the power of this man, and as the desperate and lawless character of the band, all pressed upon the mind of the brother, he sunk his voice to a whisper, and said, as the tears came gushing into his eyes— “Man, man, if you have the commonest feelings of humanity, I implore you do not harm my sister. Do with me as you like—give me to the fire, or the tree—but spare a brother the agonizing thought of a sister’s shame.” A bitter smile passed over the face of the outcast as he saw the agony of his prisoner—a smile that spoke of triumph and revenge—but it was only for a moment, and when he again spoke, his voice was calm and resolute. “And does the high-spirited and haughty blood of the Wilson’s deign to supplicate me? Me! the outcast they once spurned. To what am I indebted for this favor? But no!” and sinking his voice into that of a person fearful of his own passions, he proceeded, “I offer her this hand—if she accept it you are free, if not, you die—not the death of a man, but the death of a dog. And still she shall be mine.” For the first time since the captain of the gang had made his appearance, Emma raised her eyes to those of her brother. She heard the determination of the ruffian, and knew from his previous acts that to will and to do was the same with him. Nerving herself, therefore, for the contest, she said: “Do your worst—I never will be yours. Your hand struck down my gray-haired father when he knelt to you, and your hand raised the torch to the family roof-tree, and sent us, homeless orphans, out upon the world. It can but be death, and that is paradise compared to a life with you.” And then turning to her brother, she continued—“George, I would do all to save you but dishonor myself and our spotless name—that I cannot do—forgive me—that is a sister’s resolve.” “Bless you, Emma, for those words—now I can die.” And sinking his voice, he continued—“But there still may be hope—our men cannot be far off, and if Seaton did but know of this.” The paleness of his sister’s cheek told George he had touched a tender chord, and hastening to redress the wound he had inflicted, he said—“I do not entirely despair, if I could but gain a few hours; the captain is still in the field, and there is still hope.” The leader had now left them, and the brother and sister now talked of the past, and Emma’s heart was fast telling her, as the name of Seaton was mentioned, that she had long and fondly loved him. But this reverie was interrupted by the return of the outlaw, who had been talking with some of his band. Advancing still closer to Emma, he said: “Have you decided?—the time has come, and I am in no mood for trifling—remember, this is the last chance for your brother’s life.”