“Is this you, Sam,” asked a kindly voice at his ear. “Get up, Sam,” and a white man who stood behind him took hold of his arm and said, “Gentlemen, this is a boy that I know, (they were all “boys,” even if grey-headed) and he is a harmless boy. He don’t belong to the militia nohow. I’ll be responsible for him,” and he led him away. Alfred Minton was now called for, but no response came. “Alf Minton! Alf Minton!” was repeated with oaths and imprecations, and still no response. The committee entered the ring, and touched each man upon his head, asking, “Who’s this?” At last a small, sick, weakly-looking young man acknowledged the name. For the credit of human nature be it recorded that one of the mob begged that the poor, sick boy be let alone; and others were evidently tiring of bloodshed. But the majority were not yet satiated, and with profanity, they shouted, “O, we’ll fix him! We’ll _cure him_!” and they led him also away. The guns fired; the crowd returned; but Alfred did not. During this execution another white man conveyed Friend Robbins away; learning which, when too late to interfere, some of the more sanguinolent ran up to headquarters with complaints; but the moving spirits there having had their own desires for revenge measurably satisfied, and despairing of the arrest of Captain Doc; and perhaps, the inflaming effects of their potations beginning to wane, they began to think of possible court scenes in the future. So they were but indifferent listeners, and even suggested the possibility of some other method of disposing of the remaining captives. Pompey Conner, a noted thief and gambler, whose skill at cards had often taxed the purses of some of this fastidious throng of captors was the next called at the “dead ring.” “Pompey you _run_,” whispered Mann Harris, who sat beside him. Pompey was a powerful man, when he chose to exert his strength, and he darted through the crowd like an arrow; stooping a little, and with his brawny shoulder cleaving his way. When he reached a clear track, numerous shots followed, and the mob thinking him severely wounded jeered and shouted triumphantly; while he crouched behind a tree, rolled his great eyes, nodded his woolly head, and muttered audibly as he turned up the leg of his trousers, “It only just scalped my leg, af’er all.” “What better fun do you want than that, boys? This _is_ fun! ha! ha! ha! Let’s let ’em all go, and shoot after ’em like rabbits,” cried a mere boy. “Oh, no! you’ve done enough for to-night. Now let these prisoners go.” “Yes, let these prisoners go,” chimed in another. “Let’s pile ’em up like frogs and shoot into ’em,” said another, with an oath that should make the blood curdle; while still another said, “No don’t do that, but let ’em go and don’t shoot after ’em.” “Oh, no, we ought not to leave none to tell the tale. Let’s kill ’em all!” “We came out for _fun_; now let’s have it, and not give up so,” said a very young man, a minor.