“Burt! Burt! what do you mean?” the woman cried again. “Are you plumb crazy?” “One!” counted Pole--“two!--three--” “I want to do what's right,” the jailer temporized. “Of course, I'm overpowered, and if--” “Five!--six!” went on Pole, his voice ringing out clear and piercing. There was a jingling of steel. The spectators, peering through ragged eye-holes in their white caps, saw the bunch of keys as it emerged from Barrett's pocket and fell to the doorstep. “Gentlemen, you may live to be sorry for this night's work,” he said. “What do you care what we're sorry for,” Pole said, grimly, “just so you ain't turned into a two-legged sifter? Now”--as he stooped to pick up the keys--“you git back in thar to yore wife an' children. We simply mean business an' know what we are about. An' look here, Burt Barrett”--Pole nudged Carson, who stood close to him--“thar'll be another gang here in a few minutes on the same business. You kin tell 'em we beat 'em to the hitchin'-post, an', moreover, you kin tell 'em that we said that when we settle this nigger's hash them nor nobody else will ever be able to find hair or hide of 'im. A buryin' to the general run o' niggers is their greatest joy an' pride, but they'll never cut up high jinks over this one.” “Good, by Heaven!” Garner chuckled, as he recalled Pole's diplomatic suggestion at the store. Without another word of protest the jailer receded into the house, leaving the door open, and, led by Pole, the others entered the hallway with a firm tread and mounted the stairs to the floor above. All was still here, and so dark that Baker lighted a bit of candle and held it over his head. Knowing the cell in which Pete was confined, Carson led them to its door. As they paused there and Pole was fumbling with-the keys, a low, stifled scream escaped from the prisoner, and then, in the dim, checkered light thrown by the candle through the bars, they saw the negro standing close against the farthest grating. Pole had found the right key and opened the door. “It's all up with you, Pete Warren,” he said; “you needn't make a row. You've got to take your medicine. Come on.” “Oh, my God, my God!” cried the negro, as with great, glaring eyes he gazed upon them. “I never done it. I never done it. Don't kill me!” “Bring 'im on, boys!” Pole produced an artificial oath with difficulty, for he really was deeply moved. “Bring 'im on!” Two of the spectres seized Pete's hands just as his quaking knees bent under him and he was falling down. He started to pull back, and then, evidently realizing the utter futility of resisting such an overwhelming force, he allowed himself to be led through the door of the cell and down the stairs into the yard. “I never done it, before God I never done it!” he went on, sobbing like a child. “Don't kill me, white folks. Gi' me one chance. Tek me ter Marse Carson Dwight; he'll tell you I ain't de man.” “He'll tell us a lot!” growled Baker, with another of his mechanical oaths. “Dry up!”