The lanthorn was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the
red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards the very lace where
Sam was standing. He stood motionless - breathless; expecting the next
moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy complexion was in his
favor, and made no glare among the leaves.
"'Tis no one," said the man with the lanthorn. "What a plague! you
would not fire off your pistol and alarm the country."
The pistol was uncocked; the burthen was resumed, and the party slowly
toiled up the bank. Sam watched them as they went; the light sending
back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not till
they were fairly out of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely.
He now thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape out
of the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity was
all-powerful with poor Sam. He hesitated and lingered and listened. By
and bye he heard the strokes of spades.
"They are digging the grave!" said he to himself; the cold sweat
started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sounded
through the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evident there was
as little noise made as possible; every thing had an air of mystery and
secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible - a tale of murder was
a treat for him; and he was a constant attendant at executions.
