"And men are not often more communicative," Shattuck dexterously equalized the balance. "Mr. Rhodes hasn't talked to me on the subject, but I think I might undertake to say for him that he doesn't want to interfere with you in that quarter."
"He did the night o' the infair at Pettingill's," the slow mountaineer argued, with a swift application of logic.
"Oh, pshaw! he didn't want to 'dance Tucker,' that's all," said Shattuck, with a laugh, and once more seeking to turn away.
Guthrie's hand closed upon his arm; his eyes were on the stretch of barley, bending and swaying as the wind swept through its pliant blades, and shoaling from an argentine glister to green, and from green again to elusive silver glintings—what time the cove below was dark and purple and blurred, as a great white cloud hung, dazzling and opaque, high, high in the sky, and, as it passed, the valley grew graduually into distinctness again, with the privilege of the sunshine and the freedom of the wind, and all its landmarks asserted anew.
"Stranger," Felix said, lowering his tone, "she made ch'ice o' him stiddier me. I hed the right ter dance with her, an' she made ch'ice o' him."
"What of it? That happens every day; a woman prefers one man to another. 'Tisn't worth a quarrel."
"'Pears ter me it's better wuth killin' a man fur than all the other quar'ls that men die in daily."
Shattuck, looking into those vehement eyes, felt an uncomfortable chill stealing along his spinal column, hearing all the time Rhodes's hearty voice as he lay all unconscious on the grass, and held forth to the acquiescent, utterly unimportant Ephraim.
"Would that make her like you any better if she liked him?"
Guthrie's eyes turned ponderingly away to the roof gleaming in the cove that sheltered her at the moment.