Resentment old and rankling rose fiercely. What ever she had been and was, Mary clung to Morley faithfully according to her light and she writhed under the sting of the implied insult hurled at her now.
Morley did not move. A sense of desolation swept over him. He was following the trail of the lonely boy in the dark and the woman's infuriated words meant no more to him than the rumbling thunder.
"Who do I and mine belong to?" the tense voice went on; "to the devil I suppose! Well, then, Mart Morley, you listen to me now. This child"—she turned fiercely toward Molly—"is yours, mine and the devil's. You're a lazy lot that left us to starve or live as we could, but the devil has taken a hand in the game, do you hear? I reckon he'll see us through and no thanks to you! From now on you take what you can get and keep your mouth shut or—the devil and I will know why."
And then Morley lifted his head. The look of misery on his pinched face should have moved one to pity, but it did not move the heart of Mary Morley.
"What do you mean?" he asked wonderingly. "I—I—didn't follow all—you said."
"And there's to be no questioning," the voice had grown louder. "No questions—just take or leave what's offered; go or stay as you please, but if that brat of yours, God's and his mother's, ever shows his face near me or mine—I'll"—she laughed hoarsely—"I'll make him a discredit to you all! Come move up and eat the food I provided and drink the sour milk that was given you!"
Morley rose unsteadily. He tried to speak and command the situation that in some subtle way had escaped his control, but he felt bereft and desperate. Now that Sandy was quite beyond recall, to whom could he turn? His strength and spirit were crushed and degraded—he moved up and sullenly took the plate and cup that were pushed toward him! Once he glanced at Molly. She leered at him over the edge of her mug and her eyes were hard and cruel.
Martin Morley pushed the untouched food from him and strode to the door of the cabin. The storm was coming up fast now. The lightning flashed and the thunder shook the house. Morley's heart ached for the boy struggling alone and defenceless through the night, but he was glad he was gone! Whatever lay before of defeat or victory—he thanked God that the last of his race had had courage at least to make an attempt for freedom.
The house grew very quiet; Mary had taken Molly to the loft overhead, and presently Martin heard her deep breathing and the nestling of the little girl in the straw mattress. The storm passed at last and above Lost Mountain a bright and glowing star showed through the parting clouds.
Cautiously Martin whistled and then waited. Night after night this was his habit. When the others had departed he called Sandy's dog, fed it from the scraps he could gather, and comforted himself with the companionship of the faithful collie that was too wise to tempt Providence when Mary was around.