“Yes,” she panted. “Going home from Yerbys’.”
From outside came the shriek of the rising storm.
“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, my dear,” he grinned, with a flash of his broken teeth.
Ruth looked round at him, her steady eyes fixed in his. There came to her a fugitive memory of meeting him on a hill trail with that look in his eyes that was a sacrilege to her womanhood. She remembered once before when he had used those words, “my dear.” Since then the wolf in him had become full grown, fed by the horrors of his prison life. He was a hunted creature. His hand was against society and its against him. The bars that had restrained him in the old days were down. He was a throwback to the cave man, and, what was worse, that primitive animal with enemies hot on his trail.
If this adventure had befallen her two years earlier the terror-stricken eyes of the girl would have betrayed her, the blood in her veins would have chilled with horror. But she had learned to be captain of her soul. Whatever fear she may have felt, none of it reached the surface.
A little wail rose from the bundle of shawls. Falkner, his nerves jumpy from sleepless nights and the continuous strain of keeping his senses alert, flashed a quick, suspicious look around the room.
Ruth turned and unloosened the wraps. The convict, taken by sheer astonishment, moved forward a step or two.
“Well, I’ll be dog-goned! You got a kid in there,” he said slowly.
At sight of his mother the face of the youngster cleared. Through all the fight with the storm, snug and warm in his nest, he had slept peacefully. But now he had wakened, and objected to being half smothered.
“Don’t you remember?” Ruth asked the man. “I told you I had a baby. Do you think he is like me or Rowan?”