“Oh, my God have mercy!” For the first time Pete noticed the coil of rope and the sight of it redoubled his terror. On his knees he sank, trying to cover his eyes with his imprisoned hands, and quivering like an aspen. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Carson Dwight impulsively bent over him, but before he had opened his lips the watchful Baker had roughly drawn him back. “Don't, for God's sake!” the mountaineer whispered, warningly, and he pointed across the street to the houses near by. Indeed, as if to sanction his precaution, a window-sash in the upper story of the nearest house was raised, and a pale, white-haired man looked out. It was the leading Methodist preacher of the place. For one moment he stared down on them, as if struck dumb by the terror of the scene. “In the name of Christ, our Lord, our Saviour, be merciful, neighbors,” he said, in a voice that shook. “Don't commit this crime against yourselves and the community you live in. Spare him! In the name of God, hand him back to the protection of the law.” “The law be hanged, parson,” Pole retorted, as part of his rare rôle. “We are looking after that; thar hain't no law in this country that's wuth a hill o' beans.” “Be merciful--give the man a chance for his life,” the preacher repeated. “Many think he is innocent!” Hearing that plea in his behalf, Pete screamed out and tried to extend his hands supplicatingly towards his defender, but under Baker's insistent orders he was dragged, now struggling more desperately, farther down the street. “Ah, Pole, tell the poor--” Keith Gordon began, when the mountaineer sharply commanded: “Dry up! You are disobeyin' orders. Hurry up; bring 'im on. That other gang may hear this racket, and then--come on, I tell you! You violate my leadership and I'll have you court-martialled.” In some fashion or other they moved on down the street, now taking a more direct way to the store in the fear that they might be met by the expected lynchers and foiled in their purpose. They had traversed the entire length of the street leading from the court-house to the bank building, and were about to turn the corner to reach the rear door of the store, when, in a qualm of fresh despair, Pete's knees actually gave way beneath him and he sank limply to the sidewalk. “Lord, I reckon we'll have to tote 'im!” Pole said. “Pick 'im up, boys, and be quick about it. This is a ticklish spot. Let one person see us and the game will be up.” Pete clearly misunderstood this, and seeing in the words a hint that help or protection was not far away, he suddenly opened his mouth and began to scream. As quick as a flash Carson, who was immediately behind him, clapped his hand over his lips and said, “Hush, for God's sake, Pete, we are your friends!” With his mouth still closed by the hand upon it, the negro could only stare into Carson's mask too terrified to grasp more than that he had heard a kindly voice.