“Where’s Ross now?” Americy asked, speaking softly, afraid of Lethe’s passion. Her tone was slightly knowing, as if she gave a taunt in defense of Theodosia. Softly spoken, “Where’s Ross by now?” “He works now of a night at the brick-yard, works all night at the brick-kiln.” “It was said Ross was sweet on Lou at the lodge supper a Sat’day, sweet as pie on Lou, was said.” Americy spoke to herself, in a dream, and she began to rock to and fro again. “That’s what was said a Sunday at the church.” “If he spends one quarter on her,” Lethe said, laying down her hard oath with slow, careful words, “If he spends one quarter on her or walks in the dark once beside her, I’ll ... I’ll cut her body open with a hog knife. One time, and I’ll do it, so help me God.” Stig was telling his story, making small tracks with his fingers on the bare floor, his mouth dripping in his eagerness to relate the happenings. Theodosia looked at Lethe continually now and she saw her hate arise to an intense power and she knew, seeing her, the force of hate where it mounted, direct, willing, uncurbed by self-searching. Looking intently at Lethe she merged for the instant with her and felt the sting of hate where it spread over her own face and her breast. “That’s what was said,” Americy whispered, staring at the floor. “Sweet on Ross, Lou was, and him sweet back on her, was said.” “One time, and I’ll cut her open with a hog knife. She knows I will. She better know.” A cry. “Crawl, crawl, crawl down stable. Climb step. Can’t climb last step. Too steep. Skeeter Shoots, he says, ‘I help ol’ rat up last step.’ Sets ol’ rat down on top. ‘See?’ Skeet says. ‘Here’s corn room.’ We kill ol’ rat inside corn room.” “Americy, have you got a soul, a spirit?” Theodosia asked. “Did you inherit one? Did you?” “I saw the glory o’ the Lord one time,” Americy said, half singing. “I saw the Lamb o’ God. Oh, my Jesus!” Theodosia arose quickly from her chair and stood by the door, her hand having flung open the door. “Stig, have you got a soul? Inside you somewhere? Inside?” She knew that she was persisting cruelly. She leaned over him where he sat by the frame of the door. “I got a hungry belly insides me. I got a tape-snake wants a ham bone to gnaw,” Stig said. “I mean what I say.” She was leaning over him, looking at him intently, seeing his large heavy face from above and watching its changing shadows, looking at his dirty brown coat and his frayed breeches that bulged into the light where his knees were raised. He seemed to be chewing at something, his lips working in and out. Her eyes centered to his hands that drifted about over his thighs and cupped together beyond his knees. “Hold out your hands, Stig,” she said, “hold out your hand. Your hand.”