The noise of Jonas’ first entrance had attracted the attention of Edith Varney. She had turned with the intention of going into the room, but, on second thought, she had concealed herself further behind the curtains. Between the wall and the edge of the portières was a little space, through which she peered. She saw the whole performance, and divined instantly what was in Jonas’ mind, and what the result of his actions would be. In an incredibly short time, considering what he had to do, the old negro finished his task. He rose to his feet and stood staring triumphantly at the long stacks of guns. He even permitted himself a low chuckle, with a glance across the hall to the court. Well, he had at least done something worthy of a man’s approbation in this dramatic game in which he was so humble a player. Now Edith Varney, who had observed him with mingled admiration and resentment—resentment that he had proven false to her people, her family; and admiration at his cleverness—stepped further into the room as he finished the last musket, and, as he started toward the lower end of the room to make good his escape, she coughed slightly. Jonas stopped and wheeled about instantly, frightened to death, of course, but somewhat relieved when he saw who it was who had had him under observation, and who had interrupted him. He realised at once that it was no use to attempt to conceal anything, and he threw himself upon the mercy of his young mistress, and, with great adroitness, sought to enlist her support for what he had done. “Dey’s gwine to shoot him, shoot him down lak a dog, missy,” he said in a low, pleading whisper, “an’ Ah couldn’t b’ah to see ’em do dat. Ah wouldn’t lak to see him killed, Ah wouldn’t lak it noways. You won’t say nuffin’ about dis fo’ de sake ob old Jonas, what always was so fond ob you ebah sense you was a little chile. You see, Ah jes’ tek dese yeah”—he extended his hand, full of leaden bullets—“an’ den dey won’t be no ha’m cum to him whatsomebah, les’n dey loads ’em up agin. When dey shoots, an’ he jes’ draps down, dey’ll roll him obah into de guttah, an’ be off lak mad. Den Ah kin be neah by an’”—he stopped, and, if his face had been full of apprehension before, it now became transformed with anxiety. “How’s he gwine to know?” he asked. “If he don’t drap down, dey’ll shoot him agin, an’ dey’ll hab bullets in dem next time. What Ah gwine to do, how Ah gwine to tell him?” Edith had listened to him as one in a dream. Her face had softened a little. After all, this negro had done this thing for the man she—God forgive her—still loved. “You tell him,” whispered Jonas; “you tell him, it’s de on’y way. Tell him to drap down. Do dis fo’ ole Jonas, honey; do it fo’ me, an’ Ah’ll be a slabe to you as long as Ah lib, no mattah what Mars Linkum does. Listen,” said the old man, as a sudden commotion was heard in the room across the hall. “Dey gwine to kill him. You do it.”