“Now, Mr. Maxwell,” said he, “as you have given me encouragement that you can tell the truth, I have a few questions to put to you.”

“I will answer no questions,” replied Maxwell, sullenly.

He saw that the mulatto would have it all his own way; and he felt a desire to conciliate him, but his pride forbade.  He felt very much as a lion would feel in the power of a mouse, if such a thing could be.

“Please to consider, sir.  You are entirely in my power.”

“No matter; do with me as you please,—­I will answer no questions.”

“Think of it; and be assured I will do my best to compel an answer.  If I do not succeed, you will be food for the buzzards before yonder sun sets.”

“What, fellow! would you murder me?” exclaimed Maxwell, in alarm.

“I would not; if you compel me to use violence, the consequences be upon your own head.  Will you answer me?”

Maxwell hesitated.  The dreadful thought of being murdered in cold blood presented itself on the one hand, and the scarcely less disagreeable thought of exposing his crimes, on the other.  The loss of reputation, his prospective fall in society, were not less terrible than death itself.  Resolving to trust in his good fortune for the result, he firmly refused to answer.

Hatchie now took the rope, and having cut off a portion from one end, with which he fastened together the legs of his prisoner, he ascended the tree with an end in his hand.  Passing the rope over a smooth branch about fifteen feet from the ground, he descended and made a slip-noose in one end.  Heedless of the remonstrances of the victim, he fastened it securely to his neck.

Seating himself again on the log, with the other end of the rope in his hand, he looked sternly upon the attorney, and said,

“Now, sir, I put the question again.  Will you answer me?”

“Never!” said Maxwell, in desperation.

“Very well, then; if you have any prayers to say, say them now; your time is short.”

“Fool! villain! murderer!  I have no prayers to say.  I am not a drivelling idiot, or fanatic; I can die like a man.”

“You had better reconsider your determination.”

“No, craven! woolly-headed coward!  I will not flinch.  Do you think to drive a gentleman into submission?”

“Be calm, Mr. Maxwell; do not waste your last moments in idle invectives.  The time were better spent in penitence and prayer.”

“Pshaw! go on, if you dare, with your murderous work!”

Hatchie now unloosed the cords which secured the attorney to the tree, and he stood bound hand and foot beneath the branch over which the line was passed.  Seizing the end of the rope, the mulatto pulled it gently at first, but gradually increasing the pressure upon the prisoner’s throat, as if to give him a satisfactory foretaste of the hanging sensation.  This slow torture was too much for the attorney’s fortitude; and, as his respiration grew painful, he called to his executioner to stop.  Hatchie promptly loosened the rope.