Fanciful as was this figment of a sick imagination, the result was the same as though it had been a valid conviction, for after a while Old Man Caleb roused himself and stretched his long arms. Then he rose and peered at the clock with his face close to its dial, and once more he replenished the fire.
"Hit's past midnight now, Bas," he complained with a querulous note of anxiety in his words. "I'm plum tetchious an' worrited erbout Dorothy."
For an avowed lover the seated man gave the impression of churlish unresponsiveness as he made his grumbling reply.
"I reckon she hain't goin' ter come ter no harm. She hain't nobody's sugar ner salt."
Caleb ran his talon-like fingers through his mane of gray hair and shook his patriarchal head.
"Ther fords air all plum ragin' an' perilous atter a fresh like this.... I hain't a-goin' ter enjoy no ease in my mind ef somebody don't go in s'arch of her—an' hit jedgmatically hain't possible fer me ter go myself."
Slowly, unwillingly, and with smouldering fury Rowlett rose from his chair.
He was a self-declared suitor, a man who had boasted that no night was too wild for him to ride, and a refusal in such case would stultify his whole attitude and standing in that house.
"I reckon ye'll suffer me ter ride yore extry critter, won't ye?" he inquired, glumly, "an' loan me a lantern, too."
* * *