He drew down his case of pistols, oiled and tested the triggers, and put his eye to their mouths. On the butt end of one he found the little cross, scratched with a knife, the mark which he had made years ago to distinguish the pistol which had killed Rhaden from the others.
Then he loaded it, and before doing so he held the bullets in his palm and passed his other hand almost affectionately over the leaden pellets.
Slowly the day advanced. One thing he had to do which would be more difficult than it had been yesterday, and that was to take a mute farewell of his loved ones. The day before he had slunk into the house like a thief in the night, to-day he could scarcely resist the longing to press openly a parting kiss on his mother's brow. But she was still asleep, and as he went by her door he stroked the latch with his hand. That was his good-bye.
The only person he met face to face was Hertha. He found her in the dining-room as he came into it, to get a drink of something warming. She wore a white smock over her dark house-dress, and the lamplight which struggled with the dawn shone on her smooth hair.
She started at the sound of his morning greeting, for it was a long time since such a thing had happened as his appearing at breakfast.
"Up already, Hertha?"
"Yes, of course," she gasped. "I have been going to the milking again lately."
And then she pressed her elbows nervously against her sides, as if she was afraid that she had said too much, and cast her eyes shyly along the table.
"That is capital," he said; "will you pour me out a cup of coffee?"
"When the water boils," she answered, and busied herself with the flame of the spirit-lamp.