XIV.

Clem Sanders turned aside into the woods, following the sound. The sere leaves rustled under his feet; the vistas seemed to be clarified by their pure, fine brown color; now and then a dash of the bolder red or yellow of the foliage, still hanging on the trees, served at once to accent it and as a contrast. The boles were dark, and stood out distinctly, apparently innumerable. He did not see her; he waited, listening, but she sang no more, and he pressed forward without even this variant and uncertain guide. There was much fallen timber here and there, victims of the late storm, the leaves still clinging to their limbs; sometimes a sturdy neighbor had caught the smitten tree, and still stood, upbearing the dead bulk, its own doom certain but slow in the weight of its lifeless burden; and here was one whose fall had wrought at once complete devastation,—the giant of the forest hurled to the ground in a single blast, the roots torn from the earth; the topmost fibres of these clay-embedded roots were higher than the saplings hard by; a deep excavation showed where they had once been buried. Suddenly a hound clambered out of this cavity, nosing about with occasional wheezes, evidently bent on small game. “I’ll be bound Andy Longwood didn’t let ye run rabbits whenst _he_ owned ye,” even the lenient blacksmith was moved to observe, marking this lapse from the accepted traditions of the etiquette of deerhounds. He welcomed the sight of him, however, as the herald of Marcella, and presently he saw her sitting quite still on the bole of a fallen tree, her head bare, flecked with the sunshine as the leaves stirred above her, one hand listlessly clasping the bough near by, and the other holding a bunch of herbs which Mrs. Strobe had charged her to seek; a basket of eggs was at her feet. As she looked up and saw Clem coming toward her, his heart sank, so serene, and casual, and unmoved was her glance. He had not doubted his good fortune since the first stupendous moment of its revelation, but now he recognized the incongruity of her expression, and its utter irreconcilability with his conclusion. He had been prepared to be embarrassed, being—to use his own phrase—“bashfuller ’n ennybody.” But in all his experience he had never known so awkward and unhappy an interval as when he paused beside her, after the succinct exchange of salutation, “Howdy.”

She looked calmly forward, and as he stood by the tree, with one hand upon a branch that seemed to come out in a neighborly way and give him something to lean upon, at all events, he gazed searchingly down at her, then blankly at the sun-flecked woods, then once more bent his earnest eyes upon her.

“Been a-huntin’ aigs?” was the scanty result of all this cogitation, as he indicated the basket of eggs.

Marcella nodded assent. Then, after a silence she demanded, “Enny objection?”

Even Clem could not fail to observe the flash of laughter in her eyes, but it did not serve to render him more comfortable.

“Naw’m,—naw’m,” he said, with propitiating precipitation.

A long pause ensued. Marcella, despite her own deliberate methods of conversation, found these intervals of irksome duration, and was moved to make a remark.

“I hev been huntin’ guinea-hens’ aigs. They hide ’em so fur off, in sech out’n-the-way places, but I fund a right smart chance of ’em.” She looked down with satisfaction into her basket at the dull cream-colored trophies, captured from the fowls, whose old vagrant instinct so long survives domestication. “I fund twelve in one nest. I hev got a whole passel o’ guineas.”

“_Yes_-sum!” said Clem, eagerly awaiting a pause that he might interject this earnestly acquiescent formula. For all his bashfulness, he scarcely withdrew his eyes from her face. His manner, too, was sufficiently assured, but in every word he manifested his reverent humility, and his timidity, and his earnest repudiation of any sentiment or opinion, however dear, that might not coincide with hers. He would have found it hard, so beset was he by doubt and fear, to put his fate to the test at any time. But to go through all the decorous preliminaries of asking her hand and heart, without disclosing that he had been prompted by the encouragement which he had had from Andy Longwood’s report, was beginning to seem inconceivably hazardous to a transparent soul, who had never hidden an emotion in his life, or known a secret that he did not tell. He was wrestling with the anxiety of the consciousness of her preference and the necessity to make her suppose he knew nothing of it, when she suddenly spoke again. The mention of the guinea-hens reminded her of their donor, and of her ruse to take his weapon that he might do no harm. “Hev ye seen Andy Longwood ter-day?” she asked casually, seeking to know how far she had been successful.

It seemed to him in the moment that she had opened a way for him. “Yes-sum. That’s why I kem hyar,—straight, straight ez I hearn it. I felt so happy,—an’ yit I war ’feard ’twarn’t true. ’Twar true, Marcelly? ’Twar true, though?”

She looked up at him, startled and amazed at his vehemence; her eyes dilated, wonder in every eloquent trait. “What’s kem over ye, Clem Sanders? Air _what_ true?” she asked bluntly.

“Marcelly,” he replied, his voice trembling, “don’t git mad at me, no matter what happens; ye know I ain’t school-larned like yer dad.” This was merely a fortuitous stroke of policy, for his simple nature was not capable of attempting genuine strategy. “I dunno ef ye hev furgot, but Andy Longwood said ez ye ’lowed ter him ye war goin’ ter marry me; an’ the Lord knows I hev lived an’ breathed jes’ in that hope, ’pears ter me, ever sence I war alive’ but”—He stopped precipitately.

Her face was scarlet; her eyes flashed with a fire that seemed to scorch him.

“Did ye b’lieve _that_?” she cried contemptuously. “Did ye b’lieve I’d ’low sech ez that?—an’ I never did, ’ceptin’ ter nod my head when dad said ez much, kase the doctor ’lowed we mustn’t argufy an’ cross dad, an’ git him sot catawampus in his temper. Did ye ’low I’d say in earnest I’d marry a man ez never axed me?”

For once in his life Clem spoke to her with eager and decisive opposition. But even then it was prefaced with his suave “Yes-sum.” “But, shucks, Marcelly! Talk about axin’! Ye know I’d hev axed enny day in the year ez I warn’t afeard ter. Ye air obleeged ter know ’twar jes’ kase I war afeard ye’d say no. I kep’ a-puttin’ it off, ’lowin’ mebbe suthin’ mought happen ter make ye think mo’ of me.”

She was not appeased. “Waal,” she observed calmly, “I warn’t in earnest. I never thunk about marryin’ ye. An’ I won’t.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem, crestfallen. “But ye’ll never git nobody, Marcelly, ez would try harder ter do jes’ like ye wanted him ter. I wouldn’t cross yer notions no way ye could fix ’em. These other boys in the Cove, ef ye air thinkin’ ’bout choosin’ one out’n Brumsaidge”—

“I don’t _choose_ folks. I ’lowed I hed tole ye that,” she responded, holding her head very high on her fine and delicate neck, and looking at him with her definite straight eyebrows frowningly meeting above her dark eyes, that seemed to him unnaturally clear and brilliant.

“Yes-sum. But howsomdever these other boys air powerful set in thar way, an’ some o’ thar ways ain’t pritty ones.” This as closely approached slander as the good Clem Sanders could compass. “They air toler’ble good boys,” he felt constrained to qualify, “but they wouldn’t be good fur ye ter marry. I tell ye, now, Marcelly, ye mought find a smarter man mos’ ennywhar,—though not a better blacksmith,—but ye’ll never find nobody ez loves ye like I do, an’ would take the pains ter please ye like I would, ef ye war ter marry me.”

“I hev got no sort’n notion o’ doin’ it,—never hed,” she declared bluntly.

“Yes-sum,” said Clem, infinitely cast down.

“I dunno ez I hev got ter marry enny o’ the boys in the Cove. I dunno ez I hev got ter marry ennybody,” she said loftily. “Some folks don’t.”

“Yes-sum; but didn’t they always ’pear ter you-uns ter be powerful lonesome?” he suggested humbly.

This did not altogether fail to take effect. She pondered silently for a time on this phase of a single life. Presently she remarked:—

“I wouldn’t be no lonesomer single ’n I’d be married ter _some_ folks.”

He interpreted this as a thrust at his own lack of certain congenial and companionable qualities which she esteemed essential.

“Yes-sum,” he replied, more cut down still.

Perhaps she felt some pang of pity for his disappointment; perhaps she was not now so angry as at first, because of his very natural mistake, and thought it the least brutal method of disposing of his superfluous heart to argue the uncongeniality of his interests and pursuits.

“An’ air yer ways so powerful pritty, Clem?” she demanded. “Cornsiderin’ how close we neighbor the forge, an’ hear the dancin’, an’ the fiddlin’, an’ the wrastlin’, an’ laffin’ ez goes on thar of a evenin’, I never expected ter live ter hear yer ways called pritty ones.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem. “But ef ye’d marry me I’d stay home of a evenin’, an’ that thar forge would be dark an’ still enough I’ll be bound.”

“Waal, yer wife, whoever she’ll be, won’t want sech fiddlin’, an’ dancin’, an’ singin’ round her in her house of a evenin’ ez ye hev been useter, Clem. I can’t think o’ ye no ways but ez cavortin’,—though ye air mighty peaceable an’ quiet, an’ _kin_ behave some similar ter a mouse whenst ye kem visitin’ the gals.”

“Yes-sum,” said poor Clem. “But I don’t visit no gals but you-uns.”

“Laws-a-massy! An’ jes’ think how Is’bel an’ granny hev been gin over ter pride, bein’ ez they ’lowed ye kem a-visitin’ them!” There was a wicked gleam in her eye as she sped this dart. “Naw, naw! everybody knows the name that thar forge hev got!”

“Yes-sum.” He hesitated for a moment; then he said, looking at her, his jaw growing square and determined, his expression changing with this infusion of more mundane matters into his thoughts, “Thar ain’t a-goin’ ter be enny mo’ o’ them queer midnight goin’s-on at the forge, Marcelly, arter this,—ye mark my words.” Then, as if he fancied he had spoken too roughly, he hastened to say, apropos of nothing, “Yes-sum,” and cleared his throat.

Marcella sat feeling stunned for a moment. Could he have known, in some inexplicable way, of the discovery that she had made at the forge in the wild, stormy midnight? Was he indeed aware of the intrusion of Jake Baintree and the stranger, who worked the bellows, and wielded the hammer and sledge, and were frightened when interrupted, and who came forth only to give aid for humanity’s sake? She would not forget that they gave aid, whatever might happen, she said to herself.

He did not interpret her expression aright; he only saw that she was at a loss.

“Hain’t ye never hearn what happened at the forge arter Pa’son Donnard ’lowed he seen the devil thar?”

“Naw,” she said, fixing her eyes gravely on him.

Her interest in the subject emboldened him to sit beside her on the log, but as he bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at her, he only saw her profile; for she listened silently, flattering him with her air of attention, but did not turn her head.

“Waal, arter the pa’son seen the devil thar I felt toler’ble tormented, an’ sorter kep’ a lookout on the forge; an’ one night, ’bout midnight” (Marcella’s foot stirred uneasily amongst the pine cones; her face was a trifle paler than its wont; her lips were slightly compressed), “I hearn the hammer an’ the sledge a-poundin’ an’ the bellows a-roarin’, an’ fur all ’twar a moonlight night”—

“Oh, moonlight!” exclaimed Marcella with a note of relief.

“Yes-sum, bright moonlight—but I could see the forge fire a-flarin’ through the chinkin’. Waal, I dunno what got inter me, but I felt obligated ter know ef that thar dead Clem Sanders—Ye hearn’ bout _him_, didn’t ye, what pa’son purtended ter see?” He spoke with acerbity and a curling lip.

Marcella nodded.

“I wanted ter see ef _he_ war thar agin, with the devil mebbe a-strikin’ fur him. Waal, I war so darned clumsy an’ awk’ard I fell down flop agin the window-shutter; an’ I hev got purty fur ter fall, an’ thar’s a heap o’ me ter topple, an’ I like ter hev busted the side o’ the house down. An’ when I got up thar war no light, nor sound, nor nuthin’; jes’ a leetle mite o’ a live-coal on the ha’th, an’ the anvil a-singin’. Waal, I lowed ’twar Satan, till Jube Donnard—ye know, the pa’son’s son, a darned tattler!—he went an’ tole it all ter his dad. An’ ef ye’ll b’lieve me, that thar godly old man did go an’ prop hisself on the side o’ the mounting ter git a view o’ Satan,—wanted ter see him!”

“The pa’son!” exclaimed Marcella, vaguely scandalized.

“Yes-sum, the pa’son! An’ I tole Jube I would never listen ter him preach no mo’—enny godly man ez hankered ter view the devil agin, arter hevin’ viewed him wunst! An’ a-skitterin’ out in the middle o’ the night, like he war one o’ the boys, along with that thar caper-y Jube! Sometimes I feel like _I_ be too pious _myself_ ter ’sociate with the pa’son’s son. An’ Jube up-ed an’ ’lowed ez he didn’t keer whether I went ter hell through neglectin’ means o’ grace an’ the pa’son’s sermons or jes’ from active wickedness, an’ ez his fambly hed no contrac’, ez he knowed on, ter land _me_ on the golden shore! Jube say him an’ his mam ain’t the pa’son, an’ nuthin’ like it, an’ the congregation hain’t got a mortgage on nare hair o’ thar heads, though the pa’son ’lows ez his flock owns him.”

Clem repeated the sharp retort of his friend without any show of temper, as if he were merely interested in setting the purport of the conversation before Marcella. She kept quite still, her hands holding the bunch of herbs, her eyes meditative and yet attentive. She seemed to pursue a definite train of thought, which she in some sort modified and adjusted in reference to his disclosure. He had never talked so much in all his life. He found a new and unique pleasure in sitting beside Marcella, feeling liberated in some sort, since Mrs. Strobe’s sarcasms no longer paralyzed his simple modes of thought, nor Isabel’s pert interruptions embarrassed him and cut him short. Marcella seemed willing, nay, eager, to hear, and how glad he was to tell! Always afterward he associated the place with that happy hour: the drear season of autumn seemed the choicest time of the year. How should he take heed now that the splendor of the turn of the leaf was but a hectic red and presage of death; that the sun would be but a cold glitter for a time; that snows were garnering somewhere; and many things light and blithe—that bird in its poise on the golden-rod, the squirrel frisking along the tree, even a deer of which they had a sudden glimpse, approaching in a silent interval, thrusting out its graceful head, with startled lustrous eyes, from the laurel not twenty yards away, and disappearing at the sight of them—all should die under the rigors of the hard winter coming. He saw only how Marcella’s hair waved, how fair of face she was, how the sunlight crept to her feet and crouched there, like a tame thing, casting a yellow brilliancy into her brown eyes as she looked down. It was an undreamed-of delight, this choice confidence, and she might be sure of hearing all to which she would listen; he had forgotten the doubtful past and his fears for the future in the rich flavor of the exquisite present.

“Ye see, Marcelly, Jube air one o’ them boys ez tell all they know, an’ ain’t got no sort’n jedgmint; though he’s good-hearted, Jube is, an’ him an’ me useter play roun’ the wood-pile in the chips tergether ’fore we-uns could walk. An’ so we be toler’ble friendly. An’ though Jube tells on me ter the pa’son, he kems back an’ tells on the pa’son ter me.”

His eyes twinkled, for he thought that, having little to lose, he might endure Jube’s frankness better than the parson, who must be flawless. Then his face grew grave with a certain reflective intentness; a prescient excitement was kindling in his eye.

“Waal, Jube say that night whilst him an’ the pa’son roosted like two demented tur-rkey gawblers up thar on them big bluffs right above my forge, they seen no devils, but about midnight two men kem along the road,—powerful dark night it war; they kem gingerly along, an’ Jube say they stopped right thar in front o’ the door o’ the shop. Jube say he knows, kase he hearn one o’ ’em rattlin’ the latch I put on them big doors ter keep ’em from blowin’ open in the wind. An’ then Jube, stiddier waitin’ fur ’em ter go in an’ see what they’d do, jes’ ’lowed he’d skeer ’em, an’ he flapped his arms an’ crowed—Ye ever hear Jube crow?” he demanded suddenly, breaking off.

She shook her head slowly from side to side, although she refrained from saying that she did not covet the privilege in future.

“Yes-sum. Waal, sir,” continued Clem in pride, “he kin crow like a sure-enough, reg’lar rooster,—ye’d think ’twar haffen a dozen poultry. Skeered the pa’son, sir, bein’ so onexpected, mighty nigh ter death. Jube can’t keep from laffin’ now whenst he tells ’bout’n it, though he say he knows the devil will burn him well fur laffin’ at his dad. An’ them men, they hollered an’ runned a leetle way. An’ then they stopped an’ hailed Jube. An’ all of a suddenly the sheet-lightning flickered up, broad an’ steady, an’ he seen who ’twar.”

Marcella’s cheek was burning; her excited bright eyes were still cast down, and how the sunlight at her feet flared luminously into their limpid depths! She could hardly wait to hear, although she knew before she heard.

Clem lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “’Twar Jake Baintree, one of ’em,” he said. “An’ the t’other Jube hed never seen afore,—dressed diffe’nt, some similar ter town folks, some o’ the boys say, from what Jube tells: tall, with sandy whiskers, an’ light, an’ quick-steppin’. Oh, Jube will know him agin, ef ever he gits a show at him!”

There was a sort of savage exultation in his voice, and in his face as he nodded his head to one side with a burly gesture of triumphant forecast.

Marcella felt a sudden cold thrill. She turned her head, and her eyes met his. “How does Jube expec’ ter see him agin? What’s he contrivin’ ter do?”

Even Clem Sanders hesitated, conscious that in this lure of happiness he had been led too far. The secret he would not have deemed safe with any woman. Had she been the wife that he wished to make her, he might have contrived to shift, to evade, to postpone. She was not married to him, and he could deny her nothing.

“Yes-sum,” he began, with polite preface; “but don’t let them boys know ez I hev tole ye, Marcelly, else they’d string me up ter a tree. Thar’s a lot of ’em a-layin’ fur Jake an’ that strange man.”

“What air they a-goin’ ter do ter ’em?” Her voice had risen from its mellow contralto tones into a husky shrillness that was a note of fear, presaging horror.

Clem Sanders’s sensibilities were not acute, and he did not recognize its meaning.

“That depends on what sort’n account they kin gin o’ tharselves.”

He was flattering himself that he had succeeded in so interesting her, and as he looked at her his long and narrow eyes smiled brightly, in the full faith of pleasing her.

“Gin an account o’ tharselves?” she murmured ponderingly. She remembered how fragmentary and indefinite had been their explanation of their intrusion at the forge and of the stranger’s presence in the mountains. This, she was sure, would fail to satisfy aught but gratitude that in its fullness was content to abate even curiosity. How should it satisfy antagonistic, suspicious, even cruel men, who had set themselves to spy, to judge, to punish? The rough habits of the region, the lawless justice sometimes meted out by the arbitrary tribunals who claimed the preservation of local morals as within their exclusive jurisdiction, were only too familiar to her. She realized with a quick throb of the heart that these men were in danger. They had involved themselves in mystery; their midnight intrusions at the forge could hardly be easily explained and innocently accounted for, or they would not have been secret. She was aware, too, of that insurmountable inequality which character creates in equal conditions. Had it been Bassett and Jube Donnard who, for secret purposes of their own, had invaded the smith’s forge and cloaked their comings and goings in mystery, it would have been hard to rouse Broomsedge Cove to any sense of wrong that the owner might have sustained, or any threatened security of the public peace and honor. Far less leniently regarded would be the same deeds wrought in the same way by Jake Baintree, who according to public opinion had escaped the gallows by a technicality, and this stranger, a physician, a learned man, lurking in his company, probably seeking to evade the vengeance of the law for some dark deed that she shuddered to more definitely imagine. Doubtless they were in danger.

She had strong nerves. There was nothing partisan in her manner as she said, “How do ye know they ever war in the forge a-workin’ an’ sech? Ez ter Jube, I don’t set no store by Jube’s seein’. He kin see ennything he air a mind ter,—or else _say_ he hev seen it. Mought be Satan, sure enough.”

“Yes-sum,” acquiesced Clem. “It air somebody ez ain’t used ter the blacksmithin’ business, fur no good smith would hev let that thar leetle bend in my leetle tongs git bruk off that-a-way, an’ then botch it a-mendin’ it. That hurt my feelin’s wuss ’n all,—the way he done the work.” He shook his head, grieved at the artificer’s incapacity. “But sence Jube knowed ez ’twar Jake Baintree at the latch, the boys don’t b’lieve in the devil no mo’,—leastwise not at the forge, ’thout it’s him along o’ Jake. Jake’s ekal ter ennythin’. Ye know he killed Sam’l Keale.”

“He never!” Marcella burst forth suddenly. “_Dad_ say he never!”

“Yes-sum.” Clem made haste to agree. “Ye know, though, that’s what them fellers up an’ down declar’.”

Marcella was silent for a moment, regretting her display of feeling, but Clem, alarmed for the progress which he fancied he had made in her good graces, proceeded with the subject in which she so evidently felt an interest.

“They—whoever they air—hain’t been ter the forge more ’n a few times, an’ that’s a fac’,—the night whenst I saw it lighted up, an’ the time when they tried ter git in, an’ Jube skeered ’em off; arter that the boys began ter set up reg’lar fur ’em.”

“Whar?” she exclaimed, aghast; then recollecting herself, she asked more calmly, “Wharbouts, Clem?”

“At my house. Night arter night ’bout ten of ’em hev kem thar with thar rifles, an’ watched that thar forge fur a glimge o’ light through the chinkin’, an’ listened fur the hammer an’ sledge. But them two hevn’t never lit up the forge but twict,—the time I seen it, an’ Gid Dake seen it wunst afore that. Though some say they b’lieve ’twar lighted that night o’ the big storm; the boys kem ter watch, but it ’peared so durned rainy they ’lowed ’twarn’t no use.”

So the vigilantes had nodded while she made her perilous journey to the forge, that terrible night, and brought help thence. She trembled to think how slight a thing had saved the two intruders.

“They hain’t done much harm,—jes’ three times sence the first of August, an’ this air deep in the fall o’ the year,” she commented.

“Yes-sum,” assented Clem. “But nobody knows what harm they air doin’, an’ what mo’ they air goin’ ter do. Ef it’s good, ’tain’t apt ter be hid.”

“I dunno who sets them Brumsaidge boys up ter jedge,” she said angrily, abandoning argument for more facile depreciation.

“Yes-sum,” said Clem blandly. “But they ain’t the sort ter wait ter be set; they jes’ set tharse’fs up,—with thar rifles ter prop ’em,” he added, carrying out the figure.

There was a troubled restlessness in her anxious bright eyes, a pathetic droop in her red lips. She looked deeply thoughtful, careful, plotting, as she said:—

“I wonder at ye, Clem Sanders, knowin’ ez ye do ez sech ez that air agin the law, to capture them men; an’ ef thar ’count o’ tharselves don’t suit ye foolish Brumsaidge pates, a-shootin’ them two fellers, or stringin’ ’em up. An’ ye a-lettin’ them spies an’ lynchers ter meet at yer house ter watch an’ lie in wait!”

“Yes-sum. Laws-a-massy, Marcelly,” exclaimed Clem, enlightened and precipitate, “ef ye don’t want ’em ter kem ter my house an’ spy, I’ll run ’em every one off from thar,—every mother’s son of ’em, ef I hev ter shoot a hole through every man’s head ter git him started. Say the word, Marcelly!” he cried, in the enthusiasm of his prospective obedience. “Say the word!”

Marcella was mechanically tearing the herbs into bits in her trembling hands, as she sat and thought,—significant thoughts, since the lives of two men, perchance, hung upon them.

“That wouldn’t do no good,” she remarked presently. “They’d jes’ take tharselves ter watchin’ somewhar else.” After a moment she added bitterly, “Ye know how sech men be: gin ’em a notion arter blood, an’ it’s no mo’ use ter call ’em off ’n ’tis ter blow yer horn fur a hound ez air followin’ on a hot scent. Thar’s some hound an’ some painter an’ some fox in sech men,” the soft-faced young cynic declared.

“Yes-sum,” faltered Clem Sanders. He sat dumfounded for a moment, the significance of her troubled mien gradually dawning on his slow perceptions. “Laws-a-massy, Marcelly,” he cried, “ef ye want me ter, I’ll jes’ let them men work in my forge ez a constancy, scot-free. I won’t gredge ’em nuthin’, though they bruk up every tool in my shop, an’”—his face clouded—“mended ’em arterward. I will say I never see sech work,—the man oughter be ’shamed! I dunno whar in Kingdom Come he could hev larnt his trade,—sech larnin’ ez he hev got. But I’ll take Jake Baintree an’ that strange man, ef he war the devil, inter partnership, ef ’twill please you-uns. That’s all I live fur, Marcelly,—ter please you-uns. Ef ye will marry me,” he continued, leaning nearer to her,—“ef ye’ll marry me”—

“Oh,” exclaimed the girl, with a gesture of impatient repudiation, “Ye air so tormentin’ tiresome.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem, drawing back, rebuked, but not alienated.

“Would enny other mortal on the yearth ’low I’d marry a man so ez ter git his cornsent fur two other idle idjits ter hev the run of his forge?”

Clem thought that it would be better for all concerned if the “other idjits” were idle, but he only murmured, “Naw’m,” and listened with respectful and earnest attention as she went on.

“I ain’t got no wish ’bout’n ’em, ’ceptin’ I don’t want ’em kilt nor hurted no ways,—jes’ fur thar sake, not mine; jes’ kase they air folks, an’ hev got a right ter live till thar Maker calls ’em. Takes a man ter expec’ ter git suthin’ fur hisself ter pay him fur every leetle favior he does fur other folks.”

She was fast becoming pessimistic under the stress of her fears, and her perplexities, and her consequent anxious irritation.

“Yes-sum,” said Clem in humble concession. Then plucking up, “I jes’ mean ter say, Marcelly, ez I would do ennything ter pleasure you-uns, an’ ef ye want them men ter work in my forge, they kin do it an’ welcome!”

She looked sharply at him, seeking to discern in his open, ingenuous countenance any indication that he divined that she had more definite knowledge of the intruders than he had been able to secure, that she was ready to scheme for their safety, that she tolerated and continued the conversation in their behoof, in the hope of further information for their sake. But it was evident that Clem Sanders, in the fullness of his loyalty, neither questioned her motives nor even speculated concerning them; he accepted all that she said and did as he accepted the sunshine,—as the most righteous and beneficent expression of the generosity of nature. Some gratitude stirred in her heart with the recognition of the depth and sincerity of the sentiment with which he regarded her, and it was more gently that she said:—

“Ye couldn’t do nuthin’ nohow, Clem. Wunst them boys hev got the idee, nuthin’ kin stop ’em, an’ ef they didn’t watch at yer house they’d watch somewhar.”

“Yes-sum,” said Clem.

“An’,” she went on thoughtfully, “ef, when they tuk arter them men, ye tried ter stop ’em, they mought slash ye up, or shoot ye ’mongst ’em, an’ I don’t want that ter happen.”

His face was irradiated by this evidence of her care for him.

“Yes-sum!” he cried jubilantly.

Marcella rose abruptly from the log. “I mus’ be goin’ in,” she remarked.

She put on her tunnel-like sun-bonnet, and with the eclipse of her face within its depths the day seemed to him to have darkened suddenly. She stood irresolute for a moment, looking vaguely about her; her attitude denoted despondency; she drew a long breath that had a suggestion of a sigh, and then she picked up her basket of eggs.

“Kin I tote yer basket fur ye, Marcelly?”

“Ye could, bein’ toler’ble survigrous,—ef I’d let ye,” she responded ungraciously, still keeping hold of the handle of the basket. She moved slowly along, her tread noiseless upon the thick carpet of pine needles; only now and then her skirts stirred the fallen leaves, that gave a sibilant rustle. Clem walked humbly beside her, looking down at the baffling sun-bonnet that hid her face, and keeping silence in deference to her mood. All the world was still; the sunshine made no progress from limb to limb of the dark bare trees where it lay so yellow. And time was surely drowsing somewhere. The sky was cloudless, changeless. Winds!—they were now a mere tradition; the day had suggestions that seemed eternal in its rich, enduring light, its serene impassivity. The shadows, too, were motionless, save for those of the young mountaineers as they passed under the boughs.

Marcella paused when they reached the fence that was the boundary of Eli Strobe’s land, and Clem began to see that she intended to take leave of him here. There was a gap in the fence; some of the rails lay half fallen, one end upon the ground and one supported by the zigzag structure. She rested her basket here, and glanced up at him from the shadow of her sun-bonnet. Her eyes seemed dark and melancholy, and her look was afar off, somehow, and he had a sense of distance from her which led him abruptly to exclaim, “I ain’t said nuthin’ ter make ye mad at me, hev I, Marcelly?”

She laughed a little. “Nuthin’ but foolishness. But thar’s so much o’ that in this world thar’s no use in gittin’ mad; don’t make folks no mo’ reasonable ez I knows on.”

“Yes-sum. But ye ain’t mad at me?” he pleaded.

“Naw, I ain’t,—I ain’t,” she exclaimed impatiently! “Good-by,” she added, encouragingly.

“Yes-sum. Good-by,” the poor fellow echoed dolorously; and so he turned and took his way down the long lane, leaving her still standing at the fence. His heart was heavy within him; how eager she had been to be rid of him! His hope had sunk; the wound his rival had dealt began to ache. He felt a repulsion for all the familiar world, for all the aspects of the future as they shaped themselves before his glance, unwontedly prescient. Life hardly seemed worth the living, and he had scant courage to see it through. His mental and moral atmosphere was all uncharacteristic, and although he had not command of even the simplest capacity to feign, and made no effort to disguise the downcast spirit in which he had returned from his open and obvious mission, the gossips at the forge forbore, rather from an intuition of prudence and policy than a merciful desire of sparing him, to rally him upon his defeat. He was stern and gruff, and the presence of his cronies grated upon his mood. He went to his work silently, some of his chagrin expending itself in an energy of industry, and the mellow clanking of the hammers roused the echoes to their wonted iteration; under his skill the metal grew soft or hard as he willed, and for a time there was no indication that aught was amiss with the master of the forge, save his dull, intent, and frowning face. This tense mood could not continue, and presently, under the strain, his nerves began to give way. He had already felt some slight inconvenience from the inexperience of Jube Donnard, who was striking for him to-day, his own assistant having gone hunting. Once so absorbed was he that, as he tapped the iron where Jube should strike, he did not swiftly remove the hammer as was his habit, and the great sledge, hoisted by the parson’s son with both arms, came crashing down upon the hand-hammer, sending it flying out of the smith’s practiced hand, and jarring his arm to the shoulder-blade. In a sudden passion he flung the bar of hot metal at his dodging volunteer striker, and then with a growling oath he turned away to the door.

“Time ter quit, ennyhow,” said the facile Jube.

For the great red sunset was flaring in at the widely opened barn-like doors, and though the vermilion disk still lingered above the dusky purple mountains, the hunter’s moon, a luminous sphere, pearly and splendid, swung high in the east, with all its sentiments of solitude and alien influences, with all its brooding nocturnal fancies, as if it were alone in the sky save for its familiar the vaguely scintillating star at the zenith.

“A clear night,” said Clem to himself, with a sigh, as he sat down on the log by the door.

It was not the weather signs alone that gave his voice its significant intonation; it was the congruous circumstance furnished to the nocturnal enterprise. He noted presently a dark figure with a rifle on its shoulder, crossing the bridge above the narrows of the river, thrown into bold relief between the crimson sky and its lustrous red reflection in the water. The sun still gave the current a glint of gold; a rising vapor borrowed mysteries from the moon, and the figure seemed taller than normal height as it disappeared in the woods. It was not long before Clem saw another armed man approaching from down the road. The vigilantes were gathering. He rose, with a long-drawn sigh, and closed the shop for the night,—for all his cronies were gone,—and then betook himself home to his supper.

He had had no very definite sentiment in regard to the organization that had charged itself with the enterprise of solving the mystery of the intrusions at the forge, and administering punishment should it be deemed required. It had seemed to him, however, natural and right enough that these enigmatical proceedings should, in the interests of public justice, be subjected to scrutiny, especially as it had been discovered that Jake Baintree, almost universally considered to have cheated the gallows, was concerned in them. Since, however, Marcella had set her face against the self-constituted judges, and had spoken of them with reprobation, his interest, his sense of injury, even his curiosity, had dwindled. He was conscious of wishing them all far enough from his premises when, after leaving his mother unsuspiciously washing the supper-dishes, thinking he had gone to his cronies at the forge, he took his way out through the tall sere grass and leafless bushes across the door-yard to the barn, where his hidden coadjutors lurked, awaiting him.

The building was of the description most usual in the region, constructed of logs, unhewn and unchinked, with a loft and a wide open space beneath, where a wagon, two or three plows, and a sorghum-mill stood. The brilliant moonlight fell through each crevice, its silver sheen alternating with the black shadow of the logs; the whole place was pervaded by this tempered splendor, and through the broad open pass-way he could see the white frost gleam responsive upon the expanse of the fields, on the rails of the fence, on the boughs of a great pallid, denuded tree with its stark and wintry shadows, on the clumps of broad mullein leaves beside the door. The horned heads of the three cows were distinct in the placid divergent rays, filtering through the crannies as the animals still stood at their manger; and on the opposite side the two sorrel mares were half dozing, and did not so much as cast a glance toward him as he entered the shadowy place, so accustomed had they become to this in-coming and out-going of nocturnal visitants. A slim little filly, however, hardly larger than the calf that stood near by, came frisking out to see who was heralded by the sound of the step, and seemed to consider a great up-kicking and a series of bounding gambols on its wiry, angular legs an appropriate greeting; then finally disappeared into the shadows of its dam’s stall. The calf suddenly backed its ears, and sought to imitate the filly’s deft demivolt in a stiff bovine caper; then stood still once more, earnestly watching Clem as he made his way to the ladder, the rungs of which were very far apart, and up into the loft.

Here the shadows were less assertive, for a rude, square window had been cut in one of the gables, and the moonlight came through and lay in a refulgent rhomboidal figure upon the floor. An occasional flicker across it told of a fluctuating stir amongst the cobwebs that hung in thickly woven folds from the rafters, and were stretched in gossamer filaments across the aperture itself; sometimes, as these caught the light, they gave out a silvery glimmer, as if some precious metal had served in the weaving. There was a great pile of corn in the ear in one corner, and the swelling masses of hay bulged far over the open pass-way beneath, and almost hid it from view. Amongst its billows, close in to the wall, a setting hen, with outspread wings, was upon her nest; now and then she opened her small bright eyes, but for the most part she kept them calmly shut, for, timorous though she was, she had become inured to the strange conditions of the place, feeling assured that whatever might result from the councils held here, she and hers were not under consideration. Altogether incongruous and at variance with the simple, rural significance of the spot were the figures of armed men, that lay idly and at ease upon the hay, or strode restlessly to and fro upon the quaking flooring, or paused before the square moon-flooded window to look out upon the strip of cultivated land, the expanse of darkling forest on every hand, the violet vaporous spaces—empty air—above the unseen valley, and the towering, purple, moonlit ranges looming to the sky; but most of all, and often indeed, they looked down the white winding road where the little forge stood under the crag, between the mountains and the dark and lustrous river.

“Hy’re, Clem,” the owner of the premises was greeted, when his head appeared above the floor as he slowly mounted the rungs.

“Hy’re,” he responded in a gruff growl.

The tone and manner were so uncharacteristic that one or two of the martial figures striding about turned and looked around at him in surprise. Bassett, lying on the hay, lifted himself upon his elbow, and demanded, “What ails you-uns ter be so powerful high an’ mighty? Ye think ye air Teck Jepson, don’t ye?”

Clem Sanders said nothing for a moment. Still with his unwonted air of grave dissatisfaction, he lumbered into the moonlit place, one hand in his pocket, his shoulders slouched forward as he peered about from under his broad hat-brim at the men’s faces, as if he were seeking to individualize them, and mentally calling the roll.

“Whar’s Teck, ennyhows?” he asked. “He ain’t hyar.”

“Not yit,” sneered Bassett. “He’ll be kemin’ along arter a leetle, a-ridin’ of his mare, though he knows the rest o’ we-uns ’low ez ’tain’t safe ter hev hoss critters hitched round hyar. Ef all o’ we-uns done that, thar’d be enough hosses ter make ez much racket ez a comp’ny o’ cavalry, an’ them men would git a warnin’, and we-uns would never ketch ’em. Ye mark my words, Teck’ll be ’long d’rec’ly, a-ridin’ like some great captain.”

As he spoke, a sudden, distant, undistinguished sound smote the air.

“What’s that?” cried Bassett, half springing up, and resting upon one knee on the pile of hay.

“Hush!” said one of the vigilantes near the moonlit window. He bent toward it, his eyes scanning the empty road, the silent woods, and lonely mountains with the melancholy splendor upon them.

The others stood motionless, listening.

The man at the window abruptly turned toward them his moonlit face, the sheen full in his dilated, excited eyes; he held up one significant finger, bespeaking attention.

For the sound had come once more.