“Kill him before his lady love!” cried a piercing voice from behind. “Did they not murder my husband before me? Kill him, if you are men!”
And pressing irresistibly to the front appeared the 184 woman whose husband had been shot by the deputies. Her features, once soft and matronly, flamed with uncontrollable passions.
“Are only the poor to suffer?” she continued, as her, burning eyes fell on the young girl. “Shall she not feel what I did?”
“Back woman!” exclaimed one of the barn-burners, sternly. “This is no place for you.”
“Who has a better right to be here?” retorted the woman.
“But this is not woman’s work!”
“Woman’s work!” Fiercely. “As much woman’s work as for his trull to try to save him! Oh? let me see him!”
Gently the soldier, now partly recovering his strength, thrust the young girl behind him, as pushing to the foreground the woman regarded him vengefully. But in her eyes the hatred and bitter aversion faded slowly, to be replaced by perplexity, which in turn gave way to wonder, while the uplifted arm, raised threateningly against him, fell passively to her side. At first, astonished, doubting, she did not speak, then her lips moved mechanically.
“That is not the land baron,” she cried, staring at him in disappointment that knew no language.
“The woman is right,” added a masquerader. “I know Mauville, too, for he told me to go to the devil when I asked him to wait for his rent.”