LeNoir tried to speak, but his voice came in horrible gurgles. His face
was a ghastly greenish hue, lined with purple and swollen veins, his
eyes were standing out of his head, and his breath sobbing in raucous
gasps. Slowly the head went back. The crowd stood in horror-stricken
silence waiting for the sickening snap. Yankee, unable to stand it any
longer, stepped up to his chief, and in a most matter of fact voice
drawled out, "About an inch more that way I guess 'll do the trick, if
he ain't double-jointed."

"Aye," said Macdonald, holding grimly on.

"Tonald,"--Black Hugh's voice sounded faint but clear in the awful
silence--"Tonald--you will not--be killing--him. Remember that now. I
will--never--forgive you--if you will--take that--from my hands."

The cry for vengeance smote Macdonald to the heart, and recalled him to
himself. He paused, threw back his locks from his eyes, then relaxing
his grip, stood up.

"God preserve me!" he groaned, "what am I about?"

For some time he remained standing silent, with head down as if not
quite sure of himself. He was recalled by a grip of his arm. He turned
and saw his nephew, Ranald, at his side. The boy's dark face was pale
with passion.

"And is that all you are going to do to him?" he demanded. Macdonald
gazed at him.