Jepson, with an angry start, was about to retort, when Clem Sanders, growling an oath, rose up from the hay, stamping heavily first one foot and then the other, to rouse them from the premature slumbers in which they had been surreptitiously indulging while the rest of his system was broad awake. “Air we-uns a-goin’ ter stay hyar all night, a-colloguin’ ’bout skillets an’ sech, an’ not even peekin’ out o’ the winder ter keep watch on them men at the forge? They could hev been at thar evil works, an’ a-doin’ a dunno-what-all in secret an’ agin the law, an’ we-uns air sech all-fired drivilin’ idjits we can’t ketch ’em, though we sets up night arter night a-watchin’, kase we gits ter jawin’ ’bout Eve an’ Adam, an’ skillets, an’ Marcelly Strobe! Them men air mighty safe. I wisht I knowed I war a-goin’ ter be ez fur off from harm an’ hurt all my days. Them men air mighty safe, no matter what they air a-aim-in’ an’ a-plottin’; mighty safe from sech vengeance ez we-uns kin git tergether in Brumsaidge Cove.” It was seldom that Teck Jepson was affected by the speech of others, but the coercive influence of this logical outburst was very apparent in his manner, as he turned abruptly away, evidently terminating and casting off the whole previous train of thought, and strode to the window. As he stood there, the moonlight upon his clearly chiseled features, his full, deep eyes fixed with a searching intentness upon the dark little shanty of the forge down the road, his hand resting upon the handle of the pistol that he wore thrust in his belt, his high boots drawn over his trousers to the knee, his spurs catching the light and scintillating, albeit they were as motionless as if they had been the accoutrements of some sculptured soldier, there was so much agile strength suggested in his pose, so much fire and force in his face, earnest of the vassalage of circumstance to this full-pulsed spirit, that Clem Sanders, dolorously gazing, felt his heart sink within him. Teck Jepson had forgotten his enterprise, for the moment, and he himself had reminded him of it, forgetful in his turn of the horror that Marcella had expressed, and of his own protestations that no task she could impose would be too onerous for him to show his wish to please her. And now he had had but to hold his tongue, and the intruders might have come and gone while the vigilantes wrangled together in the loft; no bloodshed would darken this silver night, and Marcella’s tender heart would be unwrung. “Me, ez ’lowed I’d shoot all these fellers an’ run ’em off from hyar ter keep ’em from harmin’ Jake Baintree an’ that thar slouch of a blacksmith ez he hev got along with him!” he said, aghast at the rift between his performance and his protestations. He began to be appalled by the significance and consequence that now seemed to attend his hap-hazard speech and actions. He was not reflective, he had no habits of forecast and serious