ome away to tell a tale."

"Yours, etc., Derring."

"P. S. Thank you for the horses."

Then Pomp turned and looked upon the traitor, who had been himself
betrayed. His ghastly face was of the color of grayish yellow parchment.
His hat was in his hand, and his short, stiff hair stood erect with
terror. If up to this moment there had been any doubt of his guilt in
Pomp's mind, it vanished. The wretch had not the power to proclaim his
innocence, or to plead for mercy. No explanations were needed: he
understood all: with that vivid perception of truth which often comes
with the approach of death, he knew that he was there to die.

"Have you anything to confess?" Pomp said to him, with the solemnity of
a priest preparing a sacrifice. "If so, speak, for your time is short."

Deslow said nothing: indeed, his organs of speech were paralyzed.

"Very well: then I will tell you, we know all. We trusted you. You have
betrayed us. Withers is dead: you killed him. Cudjo is dead: his blood
is upon your soul. For this you are now to die."

There was another besides Deslow whom these calm and terrible words
appalled. It was Bythewood, who feared lest, after all he had
accomplished, his turn might come next.

It was some time before the fear-stricken culprit could recover the
power of speech. Then, in a sudden, hoarse, and scarcely articulate
shriek, his voice burst forth:--

"Save me! save me!"

He rushed to where the patriots stood. But they thrust him back sternly.

"This is Pomp's business. Deal with him!"

"Will no one save me? Will no one speak for my life?" These words were
ejaculated with the ghastly accent and volubility of terror.

"Your life is forfeited. Pomp saved it once; now he takes it. It is
just," said Stackridge.

"My God! my God! my God!" Thrice the doomed man uttered that sacred name
with wild despair, and with intervals of strange and silent horror
between. "Then I must die!"

"_I_ will speak for you," said a voice of solemn compassion. And Penn
stepped forward.

"You? you? you will?"

"Do not hope too much. Pomp is inexorable as he is just. But I will
plead for you."

"O, do! do! There is something in his face--I cannot bear it--but you
can move him!"

Pomp was leaning thoughtfully by one of the giant's stools. Penn drew
near to him. Deslow crouched behind, his whole frame shaking visibly.

"Pomp, if you love me, grant me this one favor. Leave this wretch to his
God. What satisfa