In an instant the crowd rushed in, headed by Morris, whose burning eyes seemed to be starting from his drawn white face. Like a flash Doty sprang forward and wrenched an axe from the infuriated man, crying out, “Partin ain't armed!” For answer a blow from Morris's fist dropped the sheriff like a dead man. A sudden silence fell, and Morris, standing over his fallen foe, looked about him as if dazed. For an instant he stood so, then with a violent movement he pushed back the crowding men, and lifting the sheriff, dragged him toward the open window. “Give him air,” he ordered, “and go for the doctor, and for cold water!” He laid Partin flat and dragged open his collar. “He's not dead--see there; I struck him on the temple; under the ear would have killed him, but not this, not this! Give me that water, and plenty of it, and move back. He's not dead, no; and I didn't mean to kill him; but he has worked against me all night, and I didn't think a white man would do it.” “He's comin' round, Mr. Morris,” said Doty, who knelt on the other side of the sheriff; “an' he didn't bear no malice against you--don't fret; but it's a good thing I jerked that axe outer yo' hand! See, he's ketchin' his breath; it's all right,” as Partin opened his eyes slowly and looked about him. A sound like a sigh came from the crowd, then a voice said, “Here comes Judge More.” Morris was still holding his wet handkerchief on the sheriff's head when the old judge came in. “My dear boy!” he said, laying his hand on John Morris's shoulder. But Morris shook his head. “Let's talk business, Judge More,” he said, “and let's get Partin into a chair where he can rest; I've just knocked him over.” Then Morris left the room, and Mitchell with him, going to the far side of the jail-yard, where they walked up and down in silence. It was not long before Judge More and the sheriff joined them. “The evidence was too slight for lynching,” the judge said, looking straight into John Morris's eyes. “Great God!” Morris cried, and struck his hands together. “What more do you want?” Mitchell demanded, angrily. “His wife has disappeared, and the negro ran away.” “True, and I'll see to the case myself; but I'm glad that you did not hang the negro.” A boy came up with a telegram. “From Jim, I reckon,” the sheriff said, taking it. “No; it's for you, Mr. Morris.” It was torn open hastily; then Morris looked from one to the other with a blank, scared face, while the paper fluttered from his hold. Mitchell caught it, and read aloud slowly, as if he did not believe his eyes: “'Am safe. Will be out on the ten o'clock train. ELEANOR.'” Morris stood there, shaking, and sobbing hard, dry sobs. “It'll kill him!” the sheriff said. “Quick, some whiskey!” A flask was forced between the blue, trembling lips. “Drink, old fellow,” and Mitchell put his arm about Morris's shoulders. “It's all right now, thank God!”