“The boy who brought me the message from you.”
“He will not tell. He my son.”
“I wrote a note and left it in my desk before I came up here, telling everything, for fear of something of this sort,” she said.
“You lie!” he accused, correctly; “but for fear you did, I go down and burn your house to-night, after I get through with you. The ground pretty hard after the hot weather—it take me long time to dig a hole beside Gracial!”
The girl was at her wits’ end now. Her pitiful little lie had not availed. She began to realize that nothing would avail. She had made the noose, stuck her head into it, and sprung the trap. It was too late to alter the consequences. The man had the physique of a bull—she could not hope to escape him by recourse to any power other than her wits, and in the first effort along that line she had failed miserably and put him on his guard.
Her case appeared hopeless. She thought of pleading with him, but realized the futility of it. The fact that she did not do so indicated her courage, which had not permitted her to lose her head. She saw that it was either his life or hers, as he saw the matter, and that it was going to be hers was obvious.
The man stood facing her, holding her by the wrist. His eyes appraised her boldly.
“You damn good-looking,” he said, and pulled the girl toward him. “Before I kill you, I——”
He threw an arm about her roughly, and, leaning far over her as she pulled away, he sought to reach her lips with his.