"Please, Marster, fer de Lawd's sake, I ain' done, nuttin'—doan' shave my head. Dat ha'r been wropped lak dat fur ten year! I die sho' ef I lose my ha'r."
"Bring the barber, and take him back until he comes," was the order. In an hour they led him again into the room, blindfolded, and placed him in a chair.
"Have you let him see a preacher before putting him through?" the Captain asked. "I have an order from the General in Charleston to put him through to-day."
"For God's sake, Marster, doan' put me froo—I ain't done nuttin' en I doan' know nuttin'!"
The old negro slipped to his knees, trembling from head to foot.
The guards caught him by the shoulders and threw him back into the chair. The bandage was removed, and just in front of him stood a brass cannon pointed at his head, a soldier beside it holding the string ready to pull. John threw himself backward, yelling:
"Goddermighty!"
When he scrambled to his feet and started to run, another cannon swung on him from the rear. He dropped to his knees and began to pray:
"Yes, Lawd, I'se er comin'. I hain't ready—but, Lawd, I got ter come! Save me!"
"Shave him!" the Captain ordered.
While the old man sat moaning, they lathered his head with two scrubbing-brushes and shaved it clean.
"Now stand him up by the wall and measure him for his coffin," was the order.
They snatched him from the chair, pushed him against
