“I feel drowsy,” Ralph sighed. “Everything is in a sort of dreamy jumble. I hardly remember what me'n you was—was talkin' about. I'm weak. I've been so bothered that I hain't eat much in several days.”
Presently Paul saw that he was asleep, and lay down beside the still form. After a while he, too, fell into slumber, and the remainder of the night crept along.
The first hint of dawn was announced by the crowing of cocks, the far and near barking of dogs, the grunting of pigs, the chirping of early birds, as they flew about in the dewy branches of the trees. Paul waked and went to his window and looked out. The gray light of a new day lay like an aura on the brow of the mountain. The recollection of what had taken place in the night flashed upon him with startling freshness. He recalled Jeff Warren's visage, his mother in her dainty dress, ribbons and flowers, and his blood began to throb and boil. In a storm of hot pity he glanced toward his father, who in the dark corner lay as still as the cracked plastering, against which his grim profile was cast. Suddenly Paul had a great fear; he held his breath to listen, and strained his eyes to pierce the shadows. Was Ralph Rundel breathing? Did ever living man lie so still, so silent? Paul went to the bed, drew down the sheet, and bent over the face. Eyes and mouth open—Ralph was dead. Paul shook him gently and called to him, but there was no response. The body was still slightly warm, but fast growing stiff.
Quickly dressing, Paul went across the corridor and knocked on the door of his aunt's room.
“What is it now? Oh, what do you want now?” Amanda called out, in drowsy impatience. “You've kept me awake nearly all night with your fussin', an' jest as I am gittin' my fust bit o' rest—”
“Aunt Manda, you'd better come—” Paul's voice faltered and broke. “You'd better come see if you think—”
“What is it? Oh, what is it now?” He heard her feet strike the floor and the loose planks creak as she groped her way to the door, which she unlocked and drew open. “It ain't nigh day.” She cast inquiring eyes toward the yard. “What's got into you wantin' breakfast earlier an' earlier every mornin' you live?”
Paul swallowed a lump in his throat, mutely jerked his head toward his room. “I think—I think father's dead,” he said, simply.
“Dead? Dead?” the woman gasped, incredulously. She stared blankly at her nephew, and then, holding her unbuttoned nightgown at the neck, she strode across the corridor into Paul's room. He followed to the threshold, and dumbly watched her as she made a quick examination of the body. She drew herself up, uttered a little scream, and came to him wringing her hands.
“Oh, God will punish us!” she said. “The Almighty will throw a blight on this house! He's gone, an' his last words was a curse on your ma, an' on me for spoilin' 'er. O God—God, have mercy! An' he went with revenge in his heart an' hate in his soul. Oh, Rafe's gone—Rafe's gone!”