“Rhoda, you don’t realize what you are saying,” he expostulated. “The fellow belongs to me--he is my slave!” Her face was white and stern and her eyes shining. Even so had stood one of her foremothers, generations agone, in Salem town, facing the charge that her daughter was a witch. She drew herself up and her lip, that short upper lip that he could not see part from its fellow without a thrill in his heart, curled scornfully. “He told me that he is your brother,” came her swift reply. He looked at her a moment, his face flushing, before he answered, a touch of indulgent wonder in his tone: “And you believed him? You don’t understand how these niggers boast over--things they know nothing about.” She made a little gesture, as if passing by an inconsequent matter. “It’s of no difference. You shall not have him.” Intensely annoyed though he was his heart leaped toward her warmly, as she stood there among the white viburnums, so tall and pale and determined. That high and fearless spirit was akin to his own and challenged his admiration. But--this would never do--she must be made to understand. He drew a little toward her again and as she looked down into his face and read his heart in it she felt her own stir in response. “But, Rhoda,” his voice was tender and lingered over her name, “you don’t realize what you are doing.” Unconsciously her figure relaxed into less rigid lines and within her breast she began to feel a soft, insidious longing. “In hiding a runaway slave you are disobeying the law--you are guilty of a criminal act. The marshal and his men were just behind me--they went down the other road, but are coming back. They’ll be here soon!” “I shall not give him up--no matter what they do--I shall not let you find him.” At that moment she was seeing in her mind’s eye the pistol in the fugitive’s hands and hearing his desperate words, “I won’t be taken!” Her eyes fell anxiously upon her lover. They heard the clatter of galloping horses on the road. “That’s the marshal!” he exclaimed. “Rhoda, you must not let them find you here, hiding a runaway nigger. I could not hinder your arrest. They will take you to prison!” She bent toward him, smiling gently. “Jeff”--she began and an undertone of sweetness ran through her voice that made his pulses leap--“are you going to let them--find me here?” For an instant he seemed about to leap forward and take her in his arms. Then his body sagged, he drew back and the protest of a strong man whose determination has been bewitched away from him was in his voice: “Rhoda, you are taking advantage of my love!” The smile that for him was always adorable broke like a sudden illumination over her face, shining even in her serious eyes and melting her mouth, just now stern and scornful, into tender, alluring curves. “Of course I am!” she agreed, and added, as she glanced down demurely and up again into his face, “And aren’t you going to let me?”