emerged. The crowd, occupied with the helpless rescuers, had not
observed him before. They shouted at him as one man: "Get down, it's
too late!" "You're crazy, you ----!" yelled Jim, with an oath.

"Never you min'," Demming answered, coolly. "I know what I'm 'bout, I
reckon."

He had taken his revolver from his breast, and was searching through
his pockets. He soon pulled out what he sought, merely a piece of
stout twine; and the crowd saw him, sitting astride the trucks, while
he tied the string about the handle of the weapon. Then he leaned over
the prison walls, and looked down upon the Bishop. Under the mass of
wood and iron the Bishop lay, unhurt but securely imprisoned; yet he
had never advanced to the chancel rails with a calmer face than that
he lifted to his friend.

"Demming," he cried, "you here! Go back, I implore you! You can't save
me."

"I know thet, Bishop," groaned the cracker. "I ain't tryin' ter. But I
cyan't let you roast in this yere d---- barbecue! Look a yere!" He
lowered the revolver through the window. "Thar's a pistil, an' w'en
th' fire cotches onter you an' yo' gwine suah 's shootin', then put it
ter yo' head an' pull the trigger, an' yo'll be outen it all!"

The Bishop's firm pale face grew paler as he answered, "Don't tempt
me, Demming! Whatever God sends I must bear. I can't do it!" Demming
paused. He looked steadily at the Bishop for a second; then he raised
the revolver, with a little quiver of his mouth. "And go away, for
God's sake, my poor friend! Bear my love to my dear, dear daughter;
tell her that she has always been a blessing and a joy to me. And
remember what I have said to you, yourself. It will be worth dying for
if you will do that; it will, indeed. It is only a short pain, and
then heaven! Now go, Demming. God bless and keep you. Go!"

But Demming did not move. "Don' you want ter say a prayer, Bishop?" he
said in a coaxing tone,--"jes' a little mite o' one fur you an' me? Ye
don' need ter min' 'bout sayin' 't loud. I'll unnerstan' th'
intention, an' feel jes' so edified. I will, fur a fac'."

"Go, first, Demming. I am afraid for you!"

"I'm a-gwine, Bishop," said Demming, in the same soft, coaxing tone.
"Don' min' _me_. I'm all right." He crouched down lower, so that the
Bishop could not see him, and the group below saw him rest the muzzle
of the pistol on the window-sill and take aim.

A gasp ran through the crowd,--that catching of the breath in which
overtaxed