He made no reply, and it seemed to her—and she could have smitten him for it—a most casual glance that he cast toward the master of the house, now striding about, unintelligibly calling aloud in a raucous voice; now shrinking into the corner and standing close against the wall, muttering in sinister fashion. And surely, surely nothing could have been more deliberate and unexcited than the manner with which the doctor divested himself of his hat and a long shiny black overcoat, a strange garment in this locality, where waterproof luxuries had never prevailed. She looked loweringly at him as he quietly drew off his gloves. Now that he stood revealed, she saw that he was a young man, —as young as Jake Baintree himself; he had a fair complexion, retaining its distinctive characteristic, despite the temporary sunburn. His mustache, of the reddish-yellow tint of his hair, was long and silky; but the growth about the lower part of his face was in that unbecoming stage known as “turning out a beard.” His attire was different from that of the men of the region, although it vied with theirs in its simplicity. He wore blue flannel trousers, with long rubber boots drawn to the knees, and a blue flannel shirt. He was singularly trim and light despite the suggestions of sinew and strength about him, and he had long, soft white hands. She noted their deft certainty of touch as he took the little black medicine-chest to the table and opened it slowly, showing its rows of tiny vials, on which Mrs. Strobe and Isabel gazed with dilated eyes. He was not slow when he had selected what he wanted: he crossed the room with a quick, sure step, and laid his hand upon his patient’s arm. “Come, Jake,” he said in a low voice to Baintree; and as the mountaineer slouched heavily across the floor, Marcella sank into a chair, putting her hands over her eyes that she might not see the doughty Eli Strobe overpowered in this painfully unequal struggle. She could not have believed that it would be so soon over. A succession of hoarse screams; the sound of ineffectual, ill-aimed blows; the dragging of heavy feet across the puncheons; wild, half-articulate curses, growing now disjointed and again only a broken word, subsiding at last to a drowsy mutter, and Eli Strobe was silent and asleep. The stillness seemed to Marcella sinister. She lifted her head slowly, and gazed fearfully up. The two men had placed the insensible constable on the bed. The stranger was flushed with exertion, his lips parted in a triumphant smile, showing his strong white shining teeth beneath his yellow mustache. He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief; the same office was performed by Jake Baintree with his handy coat-sleeve. “Whew-w!” the mountaineer commented. “Eli be ez survigrous ez a yoke o’ steers.”