"Thar, now! Hain't it a pity to have a sweetheart what hain't brave 'nuf to stand 'is ground, an' runs off, an' leaves 'is gal to fit fer 'im." Then, abruptly, the moonshiner's expression changed to one meant to be ingratiating. "Wall, now, Miss Plutiny, I shore likes the way ye stan's up fer the pore cuss. But, arter all, hes' done up and left ye. An' he hain't comin' back. Hit wouldn't be healthy fer him to come back," he added, savagely. "An' what's more, ye hain't a-gwine to jine 'im whar he's at. The Hodges' crowd won't stan' fer no sech! He's been writ, Zeke Higgins has, with the sign o' the skull an' the cross--the hull thing. Ye know what thet means, I reckon." Plutina blenched, and seated herself again, weakly. It was true, she knew the fantastic rigmarole, which made absurd the secret dictates of these illiterate desperadoes. But that absurdity meant death, none the less--death for the one she loved. In her misery, she listened almost apathetically as Hodges went on talking in his heavy, grating voice. "Zeke Higgins knows as how the Allens give us the word 'bout 'is crossin' Bull Head with the spy. He knows thet, if 'e shows up in this-hyar kentry ag'in, the Devil's Pot'll have 'im fer a b'ilin'. An' thet's 'nuf fer Zeke's case. Now, we'll jest chin a mite 'bout your'n." There was a little interval of silence, in which the girl stared unseeingly toward the splendors of the blossoming rhododendrons that fringed the clearing. The apathy had passed now, and she listened intently, with self-control to mask the despair that welled in her heart. It seemed to her that here was the need for that dissimulation she had promised herself--need of it for life's sake, however hateful it might be, however revolting to her every instinct. So she listened in a seeming of white calm, while the flames shriveled her soul. The man straightened his great bulk a little, and regarded the girl with new earnestness. Into his speech crept a rude eloquence, for he voiced a sincere passion, though debased by his inherent bestiality. "Plutiny Siddon, I've knowed ye, an' I've craved ye, this many year. Some way, hit just seemed as how I couldn't he'p hit. The more ye mistreated me, the more I wanted ye. Hit shames me, but hit's true as preachin'. An' hit's true yit--even arter seein' yer bare futprint tracks thar on the Branch, alongside them of a man with shoes--the damned revenuer what got us. Ye showed 'im the place, Plutiny Siddon--cuss ye, fer a spy!... An' I craves ye jest the same.... An' I'll have ye--right soon!"