e blame of this on them. My sister might be imprisoned. The
Governor would be in bad. I've caused them trouble enough--God knows--"

"When are they going?"

"To-morrow. We'll wait until to-morrow night--after they've gone."

"But Lenhart may not be on guard."

"That's so," Cook agreed. "Coppoc, you can go alone. You'd better do
it."

"No."

"You'd better."

"I'm not made out of that sort of goods," the boy answered.

"You've got a good old Quaker mother out in Springdale praying for you.
It's your chance--go--I can't tonight."

Nothing could induce Coppoc to desert his comrade and leave him to
certain death when his escape should be known.

They replaced the bricks, covered the debris and waited until the
following night.

At eleven o'clock they cut the manacles and Coppoc crawled out first. He
had barely touched the ground when Cook followed. They glanced about
the yard and it was deserted. They strained their eyes to make out the
figure of the guard who passed the brick wall. He was not in sight. It
was a good omen. Lenhart had no doubt foreseen their escape and dropped
to the street outside.

They saw that the timbers of the gallows on which they were to die had
not all been fastened.

They secured two pieces of scantling and reached the top of the wall.
Suddenly the dark figure of a guard moved toward them. Cook called the
signal to Lenhart. But a loyal son of Virginia stood sentinel that
night. The answer was a rifle shot. They started to leap and caught the
flash of a bayonet below.

They walked back into the jail and surrendered to Captain Avis, their
friendly keeper.

The little wife waited and watched in vain.

CHAPTER XXXIV

All uncertainty at an end to his execution, John Brown set his hand to
finish the work of his life in a supreme triumph. He entered upon the
task with religious joy. The old Puritan had always been an habitual
writer of letters. The authorities of Virginia allowed him to write
daily to his friends and relatives. He quickly took advantage of this
power. The sword of Washington which he grasped on that fatal Sunday
night had proven a feeble weapon. He seized a pen destined to slay a
million human beings.

His soul on fire with the fixed idea that he had been ordained by God to
drench a nation in blood, he joyfully began the task of creating the mob
mind.

No man in history had a keener appreciation of the power of the daily
press in the propaganda of crowd id