Without a moment’s hesitation Peter walked straight up to him. For a second he stood towering over him, eye to eye. Then he turned his back, and thrust out one great arm horizontally across the other’s body, as though to warn him back while he spoke to Elia. There was nothing blustering in his attitude, nothing even forceful. There was a simplicity, a directness that was strangely compelling. And Will found himself obeying the silent command in spite of his fury.
“Get out, laddie,” said Peter gently. “Get out, quick.”
And in those moments while Will watched his prey hobbling to freedom, he remembered Eve and what it would mean if the story of his doings reached her.
As the boy vanished through the doorway Peter turned.
“Thanks, Will,” he said, in his amiable way. “You’d far best let him go. When you hurt that boy you hurt Eve––ter’ble.”
Swift protest leaped to Will’s lips.
“But the chickens. He killed ’em. I caught him red-handed.”
“Just so, Will,” responded the big man easily. “He’ll answer for it––somewhere. There’s things we’ve been caught doing ‘red-handed’ by––some one. And we’ll answer for ’em sure––somewhere.”