Caleb’s large figure seemed to fill the door, as he stood with folded arms and looked out into the gray morning, unmoved as he would look some day into the Valley of the Shadow. Of physical cowardice he knew nothing, of moral weakness still less; he had the heroic obstinacy of an isolated soul. It cost him nothing to be courageous, because he had never known fear. Unconsciously, he was a born fighter; the scent of battle was breath to his nostrils. He looked over the masked faces with kindling eyes; here and there he recognized a man and named him, to the mask’s infinite dismay. “Your visit is a little early, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “but I am at home.” “Look here, Trench, we want that nigger!” they yelled back. “You mean Juniper?” said Caleb coolly. “Well, you won’t get him from me.” “We know he’s about here!” was the angry retort, “and we’ll have him, d’ye hear?” “I hear,” said Caleb, slipping his hand into his pocket. “You can search the woods; there are about three miles of them behind me, besides the highroad to Paradise Ridge.” “We’re going to search your house,” replied the leader; “that’s what we’re going to do.” “Are you?” said Caleb, in his usual tone, his eyes traveling over their heads, through the ghostly outlines of the cottonwoods, past the tallest pine to the brightening eastern sky. Something in his aspect, something which is always present in supreme courage,--that impalpable but strenuous thing which quells the hearts of men before a leader,--quenched their fury. “Look here, Caleb Trench, you were Yarnall’s lawyer; you ain’t in the damned Eaton mess. Where’s that Eaton nigger?” Caleb’s hand closed on the handle of his revolver in his pocket. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I happen to know that the negro, Juniper, did not shoot Mr. Yarnall, and if I know where he is now I will not tell you.” “By God, you shall!” yelled the nearest rioter, swinging forward with uplifted fist. He swung almost on the muzzle of Caleb’s revolver. “One step farther and you’re a dead man,” Trench said. The would-be lyncher lurched backward. In the white light of dawn Caleb’s gaunt figure loomed, his stern face showed its harshest lines, and there was fire in his eyes. A stone flew and struck him a little below the shoulder, another rattled on the shingles beside the door; there was a low ominous roar from the mob; right and left men were dismounting, and horses plunged and neighed. “Give up that damned nigger or die yourself!” was the cry, taken up and echoed. Within the house Shot began to bark furiously, and there was suddenly the shrill crying of a child. “Jean Bartlett!” some one shouted. “Ay, let’s hang him, too--for her sake!” There were cheers and hisses. Caleb neither moved nor shut the door. “Give us that nigger!” they howled, crowding up.