Rumpety was standing, broad and unblushing, before the stove, whither, in obedience to his commands, his wife and children had also repaired. With true prairie courtesy the men had placed chairs for the Rumpety "fahmily," and an unsuccessful attempt was made to converse with them on indifferent topics. Rumpety stood, plainly gloating over his victims, the queer gleam in his eyes growing more intense every minute. Mrs. Rumpety did not share her husband's confidence in the issue. Once, when the judge spoke a kind word to her, she muttered, "Ach, your honor! don't let 'em put the costs on us! Don't let 'em put the costs on us!" and Rankin, standing by, realized with a pang that even this misery could be increased. The situation was oppressive. Rankin sauntered out of the room and out of the court-house, closing the door behind him. The air was intensely cold; the stars glittered sharply. He liked it outside; he felt the same relief and exhilaration which he had experienced when he first took possession of his "claim," three years before, and felt himself lord over the barren sweep of prairie. There had been hardship in it; the homely comforts of his father's little down-east farm were lacking,--but it was freedom. Freedom! It used to seem to Rankin, before he knew Myra Beckwith, that freedom was all he wanted in life. This shy, awkward, longlimbed fellow had desired nothing so much as room enough, and he had wrested it from Fate. He wondered, as he stood out under the stars, why Mrs. Rumpety and her children did not run away. The world was big enough and to spare. They would probably starve, to be sure; but starvation was infinitely better than bondage. The door at his elbow closed sharply, and a voice cried,-- "Hullo, Rank! did you know that those blamed idiots had acquitted him?" "I knew they would." Rankin answered, with a jerk which betokened suppressed emotion. "There's nothing left now but lynching," his friend continued. It was Ray Dolliber, one of the more reckless spirits. Rankin grunted in a non-committal manner. "Say, Rank, would you lend a hand?" "I guess not," Rankin replied slowly, as if deliberating the question. "Why not?" "I never did believe in lynching." "What's the matter with lynching?" "'T ain't fair play. Masked men, and a lot of 'em, onto one feller." Dolliber waxed sarcastic. "P'raps you think it's fair play for a great brute of a man to bully a woman and six children." "P'raps I do," said Rankin, still deliberating, "but I guess 't ain't likely." Another man came out of the court-house, leaving the door open behind him. They could see Rumpety pulling on a thick overcoat and winding his ears and throat in a heavy muffler. "Come along," he swaggered, with a flourish of the arms; and woman and children, unencumbered by other wraps than those they had worn all day, followed abjectly and made their way after him to the shed where the team was tied.