“It is.”

“D’ye know anybody named Dinsmore? or Travilla?”

“Yes; and I know who you are, Jackson, and of your crimes against them.  In the sight of God you are a murderer.”

“You tell me to repent.  I’ve repented many a time that I didn’t take better aim and blow his brains out; yes, and hers too.  I hoped I had, till I saw the account in the papers.”

Harold’s teeth and hands were tightly clenched, in an almost superhuman effort to keep himself quiet; and the man went on without interruption.

“He’d nearly made a finish of me, but I was smart enough to escape them, bloodhounds and all.  I got over the border into Texas; had a pretty good time there for awhile—­after I recovered from that awful blood-letting; but when secession began, I slipped off and came North.  You think I’m all bad; but I had a kind of love for the old flag, and went right into the army.  Besides, I thought it might give me a chance to put a bullet through some o’ those that had thwarted my plans, and would have had me lynched, if they could.”

Harold rose and went away, thinking that verily he had been casting his pearls before swine.

Jackson had, indeed, thrown away his last chance; rejected the last offer of salvation; for, ere morning, life had fled.  Starved to death and gone into eternity without God and without hope! his bitterest foe could not have desired for him a more terrible fate.

There was no moon that night, and the evening was cloudy, making a favorable condition of affairs for the prisoners contemplating an escape.  As soon as the darkness was dense enough to conceal their movements from the guard, the work of tunneling began.

It was a tedious business, as they had none of the proper tools, and only one or two could work at a time at the digging and cutting away of the stone; but they relieved each other frequently at that, while those on the outside carried away in their coats or whatever came to hand, the earth and fragments of stone dislodged, and spread them over the marshy ground near the creek.

Duncan, returning from one of these trips, spoke in an undertone to Harold Allison, who with a rude file made of a broken knife-blade, was patiently endeavoring to free himself from his shackles.

“Jackson is dead.  I half stumbled over a corpse in the dark, when a man close by (the same one that told us this afternoon who the fellow was—­I recognized the voice) said, ’He’s just breathed his last, poor wretch! died with a curse on his lips.’  ‘Who is he?’ I asked; and he answered, ‘Tom Jackson was one of his names.’”

“Gone!” said Harold, “and with all his sins upon his head.”

“Yes; it’s awful!  Here, let me work that for awhile.  You’re very tired.”

The proffered assistance was thankfully accepted, and another half-hour of vigorous effort set Harold’s limbs free.  He stretched them out, with a low exclamation of gratitude and relief.