“’Tain’t nothin’ but bird shot. All rush her to wunst,” shouted a voice. But before they could resolve into action Carmel fired again, and then again.... It was rather more than such a collection of humanity could endure. With shouts and cries of pain they broke and ran. Carmel advanced, ready for another discharge, when, suddenly, there was a diversion. The attackers were taken in the rear, by whom Carmel could not determine. She saw at least two men, arms swinging clubs right and left with rare indiscrimination. The retreat became a rout. These unexpected reserve forces definitely turned the tide of battle, and in a time so brief as to make its recording difficult, the street was again deserted save for Carmel--and the reserves. They ran to her, Tubal and Evan Bartholomew Pell. It was the professor who reached her first, and stood inarticulate, trembling, his face working. His eyes searched her face and in them was such an expression as she had never seen turned upon her by human eyes before.... Nevertheless she recognized it. “Carmel,” he said--“Carmel--are you--all right?” “Perfectly,” she said, endeavoring to maintain an attitude of aloofness toward the whole episode. “If anything had happened to you--if one of those beasts had touched you--even with the tip of his finger....” He stopped suddenly, stared at her. It was as if his scholarly mind had once more come into its own, had seen, classified, cross-referenced his actions and sensations. His face mirrored astonishment, then apprehension, embarrassment. It completed the series by becoming that of a man utterly nonplused. “My goodness!” he said, breathlessly, “I believe I’ve fallen in love with you.” She made no reply, such was her own astonishment at the manner of this announcement. He glared at her now, angry reproach in his eyes. “It’s absurd,” he said. “You had no business permitting me to do so.” With that he turned on his heel and stalked into the office. Carmel gasped.... “Lady,” said Tubal, “you better pass me that gun. You ’n’ a shotgun fits each other about as suitable as a plug hat.... If you was to ask me I’d say right out in meetin’ that you ’n’ a gun is doggone incongruous.” “I shot it, anyhow,” she said. “Dummed if you didn’t,” he exclaimed, admiringly. “Dummed if you didn’t. Them fellers’ll be pickin’ bird shot out of the bosoms of their pants fer a month to come.” Then he paused to give rhetorical effect to the moral he was about to draw. “If you hadn’t went off half cocked with that whisky piece of your’n,” he said, “this here ol’ gun wouldn’t have had to go off at all.” But she was not thinking of Tubal nor of pointed morals. She was considering the case of Evan Bartholomew Pell and what she would do with him. CHAPTER XIV