Rome faced him, alert with suspicion; but old Gabe was laughing silently.
“Don't you be a fool, Rome. The gal comes and goes in that boat, 'n' she couldn't see a soul without my knowin' it. She seed ye ridin' by one day, 'n' she looked mighty cur'us when I tole her who ye was.”
Old Gabe stopped his teasing, Rome's face was so troubled, and himself grew serious.
“Rome,” he said, earnestly, “I wish to the good Lord ye wasn't in sech doin's. Ef that had been young Jas 'stid o' Marthy, I reckon ye would 'a' killed him right thar.”
“I wasn't going to let him kill me,” was the sullen answer.
The two had stopped at a rickety gate swinging open on the road. The young mountaineer was pushing a stone about with the toe of his boot. He had never before listened to remonstrance with such patience, and old Gabe grew bold.
“You've been drinkin' ag'in, Rome,” he said, sharply, “'n' I know it. Hit's been moonshine that's whooped you Stetsons, not the Lewallens, long as I kin rickollect, 'n' it ull be moonshine ag'in ef ye don't let it alone.”
Rome made no denial, no defence. “Uncle Gabe,” he said slowly, still busied with the stone, “hev that gal been over hyeh sence y'u tol' her who I was?”
The old man was waiting for the pledge that seemed on his lips, but he did not lose his temper.
“Not till to-day,” he said, quietly.