“Whoever y’ be, come! Them hounds won’t harm you narry bit. There’s chill and right smart of mounting fever in the night air.”
Rising unsteadily, a great fear tugging at her heart, Florence lifted the child in her arms and stumbled along toward the doorway.
As she came nearer, the man turned to speak a word to someone inside and at once the light from within brought out his profile in clear relief. A massive, full-bearded face it was, with a powerful jaw, a large hawk-like nose, and a full forehead. All this was crowned by a tangled mass of iron gray hair.
Two other facts the girl noted with a shudder. The giant’s right sleeve hung limp at his side; in his powerful left arm he held a rifle of gigantic proportions which might suit equally well for either firearm or club.
“It’s the one-armed giant that Ransom Turner told about!” she whispered to herself, more frightened than ever.
Yet, mindful of the good of the child who lay limp in her arms, she trudged sturdily on until the light from the doorway fell full upon her.
Instantly, at sight of them, a change came over the man’s face. The ruddy touch to his cheek turned to ashen. He tottered as if for a fall but, gripping the doorpost, he held his ground and continued his glassy stare until at last words escaped his lips:
“Hit’s Hallie!”
Then, and not till then, did Florence know that she had brought the child to her home.
But the giant? The moment his force of will had loosed his tongue, like some lion who stunned by a shot comes back to life, he became a terrifying creature of tremendous action.