"Thet's jest ther reason," she flashed back at him, "thet nobody won't suspicion ye air hyar an' ef ye're in peril hit don't make no differ ter me what folks says nohow. I aims ter safeguard ye from harm."
His eyes, darkly ringed by fatigue and hunger, held an even deeper avidity. He looked at the high-chinned and resolute face crowned with masses of hair which lamp-light and hearth-glow kindled into an aura and deep into amber eyes that were candid with their confession of love. Slowly Jerry Henderson put his question—a question already answered.
"I reckon ye knows what this means, Blossom. Why air ye willin' ter venture hit?"
Still leaning tremulously against the chinked wall, she answered with the thrill of feeling and purpose in her voice.
"I hain't askin' what hit means. I hain't keerin' what hit means. All I knows it thet ye're in peril—an' thet's enough."
Jerry caught her in his arms, crushed her to him, felt her lips against his lips; her arms clinging softly about his neck, and at last he spoke—no longer with restraint.
"Until to-night I've always fought against love and I thought I was stronger than it was, but I reckon that was just because I've never really come face-to-face with its full power, before. Now I'm going out again."
"No! No! I won't suffer hit," she protested with fervent vehemence. "Ye're a-goin' ter stay right hyar. Ye b'longs ter me now an' I aims ter keep ye—unharmed!"
Abruptly they fell silent, warned by some premonitory sense and, as they stood listening, a clamor of knocking sounded at the door.
Thrusting him into her bedroom and screening him behind a mass of clothing that hung in a small corner closet unenclosed, but deeply shadowed, she braced herself once more into seeming tranquillity and went to the front of the house. Then she threw wide the door.