The sweat broke on Freckles’ forehead.  He tugged at the ropes whenever he felt that he dared, but they were passed around the tree and his body several times, and knotted on his chest.  He was helpless.  There was no hope, no help.  And after they had conspired to make him appear a runaway thief to his loved ones, what was it that Wessner would do to him?

Whatever it was, Freckles lifted his head and resolved that he would bear in mind what he had once heard the Bird Woman say.  He would go out bonnily.  Never would he let them see, if he grew afraid.  After all, what did it matter what they did to his body if by some scheme of the devil they could encompass his disgrace?

Then hope suddenly rose high in Freckles’ breast.  They could not do that!  The Angel would not believe.  Neither would McLean.  He would keep up his courage.  Kill him they could; dishonor him they could not.

Yet, summon all the fortitude he might, that saw eating into the tree rasped his nerves worse and worse.  With whirling brain he gazed into the Limberlost, searching for something, he knew not what, and in blank horror found his eyes focusing on the Angel.  She was quite a distance away, but he could see her white lips and angry expression.

Last week he had taken her and the Bird Woman across the swamp over the path he followed in going from his room to the chicken tree.  He had told them the night before, that the butterfly tree was on the line close to this path.  In figuring on their not coming that day, he failed to reckon with the enthusiasm of the Bird Woman.  They must be there for the study, and the Angel had risked crossing the swamp in search of him.  Or was there something in his room they needed?  The blood surged in his ears as the roar of the Limberlost in the wrath of a storm.

He looked again, and it had been a dream.  She was not there.  Had she been?  For his life, Freckles could not tell whether he really had seen the Angel, or whether his strained senses had played him the most cruel trick of all.  Or was it not the kindest?  Now he could go with the vision of her lovely face fresh with him.

“Thank You for that, oh God!” whispered Freckles. “’Twas more than kind of You and I don’t s’pose I ought to be wanting anything else; but if You can, oh, I wish I could know before this ends, if ’twas me mother”—­Freckles could not even whisper the words, for he hesitated a second and ended—­“If ’twas me mother did it!”

“Freckles!  Freckles!  Oh, Freckles!” the voice of the Angel came calling.  Freckles swayed forward and wrenched at the rope until it cut deeply into his body.

“Hell!” cried Black Jack.  “Who is that?  Do you know?”

Freckles nodded.

Jack whipped out a revolver and snatched the gag from Freckles’ mouth.

“Say quick, or it’s up with you right now, and whoever that is with you!”