It was high noon. Sheldon needed no glance at his watch to tell him that. He was hungry.
He went to the door, which had remained open all morning—left so in hope of the return of the mad man—and closed it. Paula’s eyes followed him intently. He made the door fast by putting its bar across it. A bit of wood from a pile of faggots by the fireplace he forced down tight between the bar and the door, jamming it so that if the girl sought to jerk it loose it would take time. He treated the bar of the front door similarly.
The clip of cartridges he slipped out of his rifle, dropping it into his pocket. He had thrown no cartridge into the barrel. Then he put the gun down, turned again toward Paula, and said smilingly:
“Turn about is fair play. I gave you a can of peaches; suppose that you treat me to the lunch?”
An instant ago she had been teasing Napoleon and showing no hint of distress. Suddenly now her lips were quivering; for the first time he saw the tears start into her eyes.
“Won’t you go away?” she asked pleadingly. “Please, please go away!”
“Why,” he said in astonishment, “what is the matter? Don’t you want to give me something to eat?”
“Oh,” she cried, even her voice shaking, “I’ll give you anything if you’ll only go away! You are bad, bad to keep me here like this; to drive papa away—”
“I didn’t drive him away. I don’t want him away. I am waiting for him to come back. That’s all I am waiting for!”
“But he won’t! While you are here he won’t come back. And, out there, he will die.”