“Yes—I would,” he said; “but I cannot.”
His heart began to beat faster; a tide of wholesome blood stirred and flowed through his veins. It was the latent decency within him awaking.
“Little path-master,” he said, “I am very poor; I have no money. But I will work out my taxes because you ask me.”
He raised his head and looked at the spectral forest where dead pines towered, ghastly in the moon’s beams. That morning he had cut the last wood on his own land; he had nothing left to sell but a patch of brambles and a hut which no one would buy.
“I guess I’m no good,” he said; “I can’t work.”
“But what will you do?” she asked, with pitiful eyes raised.
“Do? Oh, what I have done. I can shoot partridges.”
“Market-shooting is against the law,” she said, faintly.
“The law!” he repeated; “it seems to me there is nothing but law in this God-forsaken hole!”
“Can’t you live within the law? It is not difficult, is it?” she asked.