"You mean it?"

"I do."

"Then," said the prisoner, quietly, "I reckon I'll stop and hear
what you've got to say about God until they're ready."

"You refuse to fly?"

"I reckon I was never better fitted to die than now," said the
prisoner, still grasping his hand. After a pause he added in a
lower tone, "I can't pray--but--I think," he hesitated, "I think I
could manage to ring in a hymn."

"Will you try, brother?"

"Yes."

With their hands tightly clasped together, Gideon lifted his gentle
voice. The air was a common one, familiar in the local religious
gatherings, and after the first verse one or two of the sullen
lookers-on joined unkindly in the refrain. But, as he went on, the
air and words seemed to offer a vague expression to the dull
lowering animal emotion of the savage concourse, and at the end of
the second verse the refrain, augmented in volume and swelled by
every voice in the camp, swept out over the hollow plain.

It was met in the distance by a far-off cry. With an oath taking
the place of his supplication, the leader sprang to his feet. But