less successful than he had anticipated, and was enraged by disappointment.  He, therefore, as soon as Kenton was brought into the village, began to give vent to a portion of his spleen by cuffing and kicking the prisoner, whom he eventually knocked down.  He knew that Kenton had come from Kentucky; and this harsh treatment was bestowed in part, it is thought, to frighten the prisoner into answers of such questions as he might wish to ask him.  He then inquired how many men there were in Kentucky.  Kenton could not answer this question, but ran over the names and ranks of such of the officers as he at the time recollected.  “Do you know William Stewart?” asked Girty.  “Perfectly well,” replied Kenton; “he is an old and intimate acquaintance.”  “Ah! what is your name, then?” “Simon Butler,” answered Kenton; and on the instant of this announcement the hardened renegade caught his old comrade by the hand, lifted him from the ground, pressed him to his bosom, asked his forgiveness for having treated him so brutally, and promised to do every thing in his power to save his life, and set him at liberty.  “Syme!” said he, weeping like a child, “you are condemned to die, but it shall go hard with me, I tell you, but I will save you from that.”

There have been various accounts given of this interesting scene, and all agree in representing Girty as having been deeply affected, and moved for the moment to penitence and tears.  The foundation of McClung’s detail of the speeches made upon the occasion was a manuscript dictated by Kenton himself a number of years before his death.  From this writer we therefore quote: 

“As soon as Girty heard the name he became strongly agitated; and, springing from his seat, he threw his arms around Kenton’s neck, and embraced him with much emotion.  Then turning to the assembled warriors, who remained astonished spectators of this extraordinary scene, he addressed them in a short speech, which the deep earnestness of his tone, and the energy of his gesture, rendered eloquent.  He informed them that the prisoner, whom they had just condemned to the stake, was his ancient comrade and bosom friend; that they had traveled the same war-path, slept upon the same blanket, and dwelt in the same wigwam.  He entreated them to have compassion on his feelings—­to spare him the agony of witnessing the torture of an old friend by the hands of his adopted brothers, and not to refuse so trifling a favor as the life of a white man to the earnest intercession of one who had proved, by three years’ faithful service, that he was sincerely and zealously devoted to the cause of the Indians.