Four feet from its base there were three piles of wood--dry hickory,
that makes the hottest kind of a fire. But he was to be scorched, not
consumed at once.

In a moment more he had been bound to the post: one thong around his
neck, one around his waist, one around his shins. They strapped him as
tightly as a mummy. It was fast work. He saw no sign of mercy; he saw
no chance of rescue, like Simon Kenton had.

The evening was beautiful, save for a hard wind. The wind would fan
the flames. A warrior thrust a torch into the piles of hickory. A
chief commenced to speak, bidding all watch the prisoner die but not to
let him die too quickly. The wood was crackling, the heat of the
flames wafted across John Slover's black-painted skin; he stiffened and
held himself taut. He would bear himself like a man, and utter never a
groan.

The heat increased; the orator was still haranguing; whew! Hah! What
was that? The wind had ceased, the sky had darkened, there was a roll
of thunder and the rain pattered! The drops pelted thicker, the cloud
burst and a regular deluge descended, hissing into the fire, smudging
it, drenching John Slover, driving the crowd away, under the roof--and
putting out the fire completely.

A gasp of astonishment, almost awe, arose. The Great Spirit had
interfered! The storm passed in twenty minutes, and left the sky clear
for the setting sun. The Indians gained courage. Some were for
rekindling the fire; but the wood was wet. There was no sport in
burning a man with wet wood. So they untied him and seated him upon
the ground. Then they danced the scalp dance around him for three
hours, the while they kicked him, and beat him with sticks. At last
they grew tired. He had again lost hope.

"You will burn in the morning," they jeered.

"Are you not sleepy, brother?" asked a tall young chief, Half Moon.

"Yes, I am," John answered, although that was a queer question to ask
of a man battered like he was.

"Very well; we will all sleep, so that you may be fresh to eat fire
to-morrow."

"A pleasant night for me," thought John.

Now it was eleven o'clock, by the stars. He was taken to a log cabin,
under three guards. They tied his wrists and elbows together behind
his back, with buffalo-hide thongs that bit into his flesh. They put a
noose close around his neck and fastened the end of the rope to a beam
above, giving him just enough slack so that he might lie down.

The three gu