“Are you alone, dear? Is it safe? I thought I heard voices just now.”
“You did,” she replied calmly. Her brain was working clearly and rapidly now as her thoughts flashed over what she must accomplish.
“Rhoda, you ought not to be here alone,” he went on insistently. “You don’t know who may be wandering through these woods.” Again his glance left her face and swept the hillside. “I am looking for a runaway now,” he pursued. “I was sure I saw him on this path, just as he disappeared among these bushes. Did you see him? It was only a few minutes ago.”
“Yes, I saw him.” He stared at her, wondering what might mean the little thrill in her tones.
“You did? Where did he go?”
“I shall not tell you.”
“What do you mean, Rhoda?”
“I mean—I know where he is—I showed him where to hide—and—I shall not let you find him!” She had dropped her riding skirt and its long black folds fell closely around her slender figure. He stood a little below her on the hillside and as he looked up and saw the calm determination on her face, amazement overspread his own.
“Rhoda, you don’t realize what you are saying,” he expostulated. “The fellow belongs to me—he is my slave!”
Her face was white and stern and her eyes shining. Even so had stood one of her foremothers, generations agone, in Salem town, facing the charge that her daughter was a witch. She drew herself up and her lip, that short upper lip that he could not see part from its fellow without a thrill in his heart, curled scornfully. “He told me that he is your brother,” came her swift reply.