“I remember,” replied Emma, “and I have decided—for death—both of us, for I survive not him.” And drawing a small knife from her bosom, she said—“Now leave us.” “’Tis well—you will find me no sluggard in the fulfillment of my promises,” said the other, his voice hoarse with suppressed passion. “Here, guard, hang this rebel to the nearest tree; we will find if his high-bred sister can act as well as talk.” Obedient to their leader’s command, the outlaws seized upon the prisoner, and leading him to a little distance from the spot where his sister sat, commenced the horrid preparations for his death. Shading her eyes with her hands, Emma sat mute and motionless, the picture of despair. In haste the fated noose was made and fastened around the neck of the captive, and now all was ready. Again did the heartless villain urge the sister to accept the offer of his hand, but this time in mere mockery; but the words of her brother, as he blessed her for the resolve, came to her and she sat mute. Stung by this display of courage, the ruffian now gave the word for the completion of the execution. The cord had been run over the limb of the tree, and two of the band waited the signal from the captain. Around had congregated the gang to witness the proceeding. All was stillness. The spot was wild and lonely—a single open space amid the dense swamp that on every hand spread its curtain of foliage, so that the eye could not reach but a small distance into the environs of the encampment. And there stood that brother. He had taken the last view of nature—the last farewell of his sister—the last thought of his country—and now, he stood firm and collected. And near him was the leader of the band, a glare of triumph lighting up his eyes as he saw the end of all approaching. Gazing upon his victim’s face for a moment, he said— “George Wilson, you once despised me and rejected my friendship. I loved your sister—you thwarted me in that love, now I am your captor, ask no mercy—I will grant none.” “Wretch!” replied Wilson, “I despise alike your friendship and your mercy. Talk not of love. Such a villain cannot feel the passion; but think not to escape for this deed, the band to which I belong will not let my blood be spilt in vain. You tremble at the name—well you may—it will be a curse on your path, and you will pay a heavy penalty for this day’s work.” “No more of this ranting,” interrupted the outlaw. “Think not to fright me from my purpose. Marion himself could not do that. Ha! ha!—who conquers now?”