They levelled their muskets at him several times, and then lowered them, saying; "Devil take it, we won't shoot yet; let us give him time to see death coming," till at last the poor wretch, seeing there was no hope of mercy, begged to be put out of his misery.
Drops of sweat stood on my forehead.

I felt my pockets to see if I had nothing on me which I could use as a weapon, but I had not even a knife.
I looked at my dog; he was lying flat at the foot of the tree, and appeared to be a prey to the most abject terror.

The prisoner continued his supplications, and the assassins their threats and mockery.

I climbed quietly down out of the fig tree, intending to fetch my pistols.
My dog followed me with his eyes, which seemed to be the only living things about him.

Just as my foot touched the ground a double report rang out, and my dog gave a plaintive and prolonged howl.