The terrified James did not know which to obey.
"Here, give me the wheel," ordered Joan. "Be quiet, Effie May!" Into her mind came scornfully one of her father's sayings, "The canaille are invariably timid."
Effie May suddenly screamed again. "They're going to shoot!"
And as if at a signal for which they had been waiting, two shots barked out.
The Major, still finely erect, thrust the negro behind him, and at the same moment Joan sprang out of the car to go to his defense; two instinctive acts which proved them father and child, and also proved indubitably the Darcy right to pride of race.
His steady voice reached her again as she struggled through the milling crowd; "You poor fools, look to what your folly has already led you! You've shot the wrong man. You've shot me!"
There was a second of appalled silence. Then a man muttered "Golly!" and turned and fled. His panic was contagious. One after another, by twos and threes, the lynchers melted hastily away. When Joan reached her father he was seated on the ground, leaning for support against the bridge railing, alone except for the shackled negro.
He still had command of the situation. "Take my penknife, Dollykins, and set this boy free so that he can run," he ordered.
Joan cut the ropes, sick with relief. He was so calm that she thought he must have been bluffing the crowd.
"Dad! Dad! You're not really hurt, then?"