“Stolen—pasture—tracked him up heah?” echoed Ellen, without any evidence of emotion whatever. Indeed, she seemed to have been turned to stone.
“Trackin’ him was easy. I wish for your sake it ’d been impossible,” he said, bluntly.
“For my sake?” she echoed, in precisely the same tone,
Manifestly that tone irritated Isbel beyond control. He misunderstood it. With a hand far from gentle he pushed her bent head back so he could look into her face.
“Yes, for your sake!” he declared, harshly. “Haven’t you sense enough to see that? ... What kind of a game do you think you can play with me?”
“Game I ... Game of what?” she asked.
“Why, a—a game of ignorance—innocence—any old game to fool a man who’s tryin’ to be decent.”
This time Ellen mutely looked her dull, blank questioning. And it inflamed Isbel.
“You know your father’s a horse thief!” he thundered.
Outwardly Ellen remained the same. She had been prepared for an unknown and a terrible blow. It had fallen. And her face, her body, her hands, locked with the supreme fortitude of pride and sustained by hate, gave no betrayal of the crashing, thundering ruin within her mind and soul. Motionless she leaned there, meeting the piercing fire of Isbel’s eyes, seeing in them a righteous and terrible scorn. In one flash the naked truth seemed blazed at her. The faith she had fostered died a sudden death. A thousand perplexing problems were solved in a second of whirling, revealing thought.