Ole’s faith was beautiful.
“It’s not to be thought of. It’s impossible!”
“But supposing,” urged Ichabod.
The boy-man was silent for a very long minute; then his face darkened, and the soft jaw grew hard.
“I don’t know––” he said slowly,––“I don’t know, but I think I kill that man.”
Ichabod did not smile this time.
“We’re all much alike, Ole. I think you would.” 182
They drove on; far past the town, now; the sun high in the sky; dew sparkling like prisms innumerable; the prairie colorings soft as a rug––its varied greens of groundwork blending with the narrow line of fresh breaking rolling at their feet.
“You were born in this country?” asked Ichabod suddenly.
“In Iowa. It’s much like this––only rougher.”