“Guilty!” was the reply.

And so on all down the line.  Each answer was the same.  And when each plotter had given his verdict, the chief addressed them all in a loud voice.

“And the penalty?” he questioned.  “What shall the penalty be?”

And each man answered as with one voice: 

“Death!”

“Good!” said the chief.  “So be it.”

He turned to Chester.

“Prisoner,” he said, “you have heard the verdict.  Have you anything further to say?”

“Nothing,” said Chester quietly.  “What’s the use?”

“Then,” said the chief, turning to the rest of the conspirators, “you shall draw lots to determine the executioner.”

He opened a small box that was on the table, rose to his feet, and held the box out at arm’s length.

“You will come forward, one at a time,” he told his fellow-plotters, “and let not one of you look at the ball you have drawn until each man has taken a ball and returned to his seat.  Number One!”

Number One stepped forward, reached in the box and extracted a ball, which he carefully concealed in his hand, and returned to his seat.  Each man stepped forward in turn, and then returned to his chair, with a ball in his hand.  Then the chief spoke again.

“Who has the red ball?” he demanded.

Each man looked at the ball he had drawn, and then a voice at the opposite end of the room from Chester rang out: 

“I have it!”

“Good!” exclaimed the chief once more.  “Then the prisoner’s fate shall be left in your hands.  You may dispose of him in whatever manner you desire.  But”—­and he raised a warning finger—­“see that you make no slip.”  He turned to the rest of the conspirators.  “The rest of you may go.”

Slowly the conspirators, at intervals of perhaps a minute each, filed from the room, and soon there was no one left save Chester, his executioner, and the chief.

“Remember,” said the chief to the one remaining conspirator, as he prepared to take his departure, “remember that a failure to carry out the command of the court-martial means your own death.”

“Have no fear,” replied the executioner.  “He shall not escape.”

The chief nodded and left without another word.

A moment the executioner stood, looking after the chief’s retreating figure.  Then he drew a revolver from his pocket and approached Chester.

Chester’s heart began to thump loudly, and, try as he would, he could not but tremble.

“This is the finish, all right,” he told himself.

He closed his eyes and uttered a short prayer.

A hand fell on his shoulder and shook him, The lad opened his eyes.  The executioner stood over him, revolver in hand.

“You are an enemy of my country,” said the executioner, “and I should kill you.  But I can’t do it.  You spared my life once, and it is impossible that I kill you now.”