The man, sneering, his countenance torn with emotion, his eyes as glittering as those of an angered serpent, came forward into the middle of the room again. He was staring at Betty rather than at Nell. He said to the former:
“You going to let me go out, Betty?”
“Oh! Oh! I——”
“Don’t mind even to answer him—the dog!” Nell muttered. “I swear, after this, I would not lift a hand to stop the boys from stringing him up.”
“Is that so?” queried Dick, turning to her again. “You think you’ve got things your own way, don’t you? I’ll show you. Betty! tell this girl what and who I am and why I am not going to leave this room. Tell her, my dear, why you can’t bear to see me given up to the sheriff.”
“You dog!” ejaculated Nell.
“Tell her, Betty,” commanded Dick, but without raising his voice.
The parson’s sister, fairly writhing in her chair, put up her clasped hands to Nell. She whispered brokenly:
“Don’t—don’t send him out. Don’t tell, Nell. I—I couldn’t bear it!”
“In the name of common sense,” queried the singer, “what do you mean? This fellow’s frightened you out of your wits.”