"Gentlemen," Charles began, calmly, "pardon me for interrupting your conversation, but I have reason to believe that you are here on my account. Am I right?"
"Well, yes," one of the men said, awkwardly, as he shifted from one of his heavily booted feet to the other. "You see, we are deputies under the sheriff's orders."
"I thought so," Charles answered, "and I've come to ask a favor of you. The fact that you are watching me under this gentleman's roof is very mortifying to me, for I respect his kindness and his hospitality, and I want to ask if there is any reason why you may not arrest me and take me elsewhere?"
The question astounded them. The two men exchanged swift glances of inquiry. "Why—why, we have had no such orders, you see," the deputy stammered. "We are only doing as we were directed."
"But a man has a right to decent treatment before he is proved guilty of a charge," Charles went on, "and this constant shadowing of this house because I am here is not fair to me or the family. I am a laborer on this place—that and nothing more—and I demand that you either withdraw from these premises or take me with you for safekeeping."
Charles heard a gasp behind him, and saw Mary standing in the doorway, pale as death and trembling.
"What are you saying?" she cried, and she came forward and caught the arm of her lover. "You are not going! You are not!"
"Daughter! Daughter!" Rowland protested, in a sinking voice, "be careful—be careful! Daughter, be careful!"
"He is not going!" she repeated. "It is a shame, an outrage! Father, if he goes, I go. Understand that for once and all."
An awkward pause ensued. Charles stood like a man of granite, his head up, his eyes fixed on the deputies; across his face the whip of pain had left its mark.