"You little prig!" sneered the Captain of the band. But he did not look at Cyril. "Preaching at us!" cried another man indignantly.
"He wants taking down a peg or two," said a third.
"What sinners we must be!" scoffed a fourth.
"Leave him alone," growled one whose heart the boy's brave, noble words had touched. "Let him be."
"Aye, do," said a younger man. But he spoke timidly, looking down on the ground as he did so. "In case—in case," he added, "the youngster may be right."
"Right! Hark at him! Hark at Green!" jeered two or three rough voices.
The Captain looked angrily around at the men, and then at the boy. He felt thoroughly out of temper.
"A good thrashing would do the lad no harm," he muttered.
"Thrashing's too good for him," grumbled Whiterock, all his kind feeling for Cyril having changed to bitter dislike.
"Boy, come here," cried the Captain.
Cyril went up to him. He was very pale now, and trembling. He did not feel at all brave as he clasped his hands nervously together. It was terrible to feel that he stood alone, unarmed, helpless in the midst of all these men.
The Captain looked searchingly at him. "Your name, lad?" he demanded in stern tones.
"Cyril Morton," answered the boy.
"Cyril! A girl's name! Pooh!"
With a sudden change of mood the Captain laughed derisively. He passed his big, rough hand over the boy's soft curly hair and down his slim young figure.
"All the same," he said, "I like you, boy, and believe that we can make a man of you yet. After all, I will repeat my offer. Will you stay and be my son?"
Cyril shook his head. He could not speak at the moment, for the right words would not come. Was he to go through the ordeal again?
"He won't!" cried one of the men indignantly. "Did you ever know such defiance?"
"Speak," demanded the Captain, his hand resting heavily now on Cyril's shoulder as if he would compel his obedience. "Do you still refuse?"
"Yes. I cannot—oh, I cannot accept your offer! I cannot!" cried the boy.
"Very well," shouted the Captain angrily. "You defy us! Here, you, Whiterock, you brought the youngster. Take him outside a bit while we decide what is to be done. Take him away, I say, for ten minutes. Then bring him back to hear his sentence."
Cyril trembled. Would they kill him? Out here in the backwoods they could do whatever they liked. There were no policemen here.
"Come on," said Whiterock, seizing hold of Cyril's collar and dragging him out of the place.
Outside he flung the boy down on the ground at his feet.
"Oh, Whiterock," pleaded Cyril, "though you killed my father—my dear, good father, will you not save me, his son?"
"Oh, Whiterock, will you not save me?"
It was the best plea the boy could have made, for since those words of his to the Captain, and his terrible distress about his poor father, Whiterock had felt something like compunction for what he had done.
"The matter lies in your own hands, Cyril," he said, not unkindly. "You, and only you, can save your life. Accept the Captain's offer—it is a generous one."
"But I can't," said Cyril. "Oh, Whiterock, I can't!"
"Well, come back with me inside."
"One moment," cried poor Cyril. "What will they do to me?"
"You'll hear that soon enough," muttered Whiterock, leading him inside the huge shanty.
"Come here," called the Captain loudly, "and hear our decision."
Cyril stood tremblingly before him.
"It is," cried the man, "that if you do not change your mind by morning and consent to become one of our band, we shall tie you to a bunk and leave you here imprisoned in this camp, with only the snakes for your companions."
A cry of horror escaped from Cyril's lips. Then eagerly, passionately, he pleaded with the Captain to punish him in any other way he liked than that.
But to all and everything he urged the Captain had only one answer, Cyril must accept his offer, and then all would be well with him.
The boy, however, although greatly tempted to dissemble for a while and pretend to comply with the Captain's wishes until they reached a more civilised place where he might gain succour, remained firm.
So did the Captain. At the break of day he and the men breakfasted without giving one morsel of food to the boy. Then they made their preparations for leaving the place, which consisted mainly in packing up the best of the game and deer flesh.
When they were quite ready to start the Captain strode up to Cyril, asking if he had changed his mind.
"No, sir," answered the boy.
Then the Captain made two of his men lay Cyril down in a bunk and tie him to it securely.
The horrified boy, looking round nervously, perceived a snake at the foot of the bunk, and another larger reptile at one side of it.
Was he to be left exposed to their unwelcome embraces? Harmless they might be, but most unpleasant.
Vainly he begged and implored for mercy.
To all and everything he said the Captain's reply was always, "Do you change your mind? Will you be one of us?"
"I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" cried the poor boy every time.
Last of all Whiterock came up, and once more advised him not to throw his life away.
Cyril, however, would not yield.
Then they left him, and going outside mounted their horses and rode off.
There was a great silence in the deserted camp.
Cyril prayed to God for help.
Suddenly he felt a cold, slimy body slipping round his leg and gliding up his waist. He could not reach it with his hands, which were tied to the side of the bunk. Shouting at it to frighten it away was not of any use.
With a piercing scream he gave himself up for lost and knew no more.