Meanwhile, the executioner had attached strong cords to his ankles and wrists, and fastened them tightly to the iron rings. He drew both his pistols, and prepared for a desperate encounter. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She was going through with that, anyhow. "A friend," replied Jonathan, uncocking the pistol, and placing it in his pocket. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones.
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