The great man got up, laughing, and went toward the door, rubbing the boy's hair the wrong way as he passed him. The hounds followed languidly, and Ulysses darted up the creaking staircase, and tumbled into the little attic room where Melissa sat gazing drearily out of the window.
"They've got 'im!'" he said breathlessly. "They're a-go'n' to hang 'im!"
The girl got up and backed toward the wall, gasping and dizzy.
"Who said so?" she faltered.
"The man downstairs,—the one that came from Loss Anglus."
Melissa put the palms of her outstretched hands against the wall behind her to steady herself. In the half-light she seemed crowding away from some terror that confronted her.
"I don't believe it. They won't do anything to him right away; it wouldn't be fair. They don't know what paw done. I"—
Her voice broke. She looked about piteously, biting her lip and trying to remember what she had said.
Ulysses was not a critical listener. He had enjoyed his little sensation, and was ready for another. From the talk downstairs he knew that Sterling had acknowledged the killing to the men at the camp. His excitement made him indifferent as to the source of Melissa's information.
"I'm go'n' to the hangin'," he said, doggedly boastful.