that, but that is enough to save the innocent man and punish the guilty!  Take down all that I have said.  I, too, am guilty! would make amends, but it is almost too late—­the night is very dark, and the earth swings about like a cradle.  Ah!—­have you taken down on paper what I said?  I will tell you nothing more till all is written—­write it down—­on-paper—­every word—­write that before I say any more!”

They complied with his requisition.  One of the troopers, on a sheet of paper furnished by the jailer, and placed upon the saddle of his horse, standing by in the pale light of the moon, recorded word after word, with scrupulous exactness, of the dying man’s confession.  He proceeded duly to the narration of every particular of all past occurrences, as we ourselves have already detailed them to the reader, together with many more, unnecessary to our narrative, of which we had heretofore no cognizance.  When this was done, the landlord required it to be read, commenting, during its perusal, and dwelling, with more circumstantial minuteness, upon many of its parts.

“That will do—­that will do!  Now swear me, Brooks!—­you are in the commission—­lift my hand and swear me, so that nothing be wanting to the truth!  What if there is no bible?” he exclaimed, suddenly, as some one of the individuals present suggested a difficulty on this subject.

“What!—­because there is no bible, shall there be no truth?  I swear—­though I have had no communion with God—­I swear to the truth—­by him!  Write down my oath—­he is present—­they say he is always present!  I believe it now—­I only wish I had always believed it!  I swear by him—­he will not falsify the truth!—­write down my oath, while I lift my hand to him!  Would it were a prayer—­but I can not pray—­I am more used to oaths than prayers, and I can not pray!  Is it written—­is it written?  Look, Mr. Colleton, look—­you know the law.  If you are satisfied, I am.  Will it do?”

Colleton replied quickly in the affirmative, and the dying man went on:—­

“Remember Lucy—­the poor Lucy!  You will take care of her.  Say no harsh words in her ears—­but, why should I ask this of you, whom—­Ah!—­it goes round—­round—­round—­swimming—­swimming.  Very dark—­very dark night, and the trees dance—­Lucy—­”

The voice sunk into a faint whisper whose sounds were unsyllabled—­an occasional murmur escaped them once after, in which the name of his niece was again heard; exhibiting, at the last, the affection, however latent, which he entertained in reality for the orphan trust of his brother.  In a few moments, and the form stiffened before them in all the rigid sullenness of death.

CHAPTER XL.

WOLF’S NECK—­CAPTURE.