“Whar’s Jake, then?” Eli Strobe turned his bandaged head actively in search of the supposed sharer of Rathburn’s peril, as if thinking him near at hand. “Some o’ them boys air been keen ter see Jake stretch hemp ever sence the jury acquitted him,—miser’ble, senseless critters; got no mo’ ’spect fur the law ’n so many painters an’ sech. Whar’s Jake? They didn’t ketch Jake, did they?” He rose stumblingly to his feet. Rathburn laughed; the gleam of his white teeth, showing under his yellow mustache, was capable of adding a geniality to his ordinary expression, but now it gave only a certain fierceness to his face, so little mirth did it imply. “No, you may bet your immortal soul they didn’t. By this time he’s mighty safe; no more to be found, I’ll warrant, than Samuel Keale,—ain’t that his name? I reasoned with Baintree. I begged him to come boldly out with me; we could afford to stand the scrutiny of the vigilantes; but he wouldn’t. He’s afraid of your good, law-abiding population of Broomsedge, Mr. Strobe.” He clasped his hands behind his head and tilted himself back in his chair, as his eyes retrospectively rested on the coals. “Jake threw down his pickaxe and started the instant we got a word of warning.” “Waal, ye war powerful lucky. Ginerally, in Brumsaidge, the lynchers an’ sech keep too close a mouth fur enny words o’ warnin’ ter git a-goin’,” said Eli Strobe, who, however he might congratulate himself in the interests of law and humanity upon the result, felt a certain deprecation of the futility of the enterprise as a work of art, as it were. “I dunno how in this worl’ sech ez a word o’ warnin’ could hev kem ter ye.” “It may have come through a woman, but it seemed to me through an angel of mercy!” the young man declared, his glowing brown eyes swiftly seeking Marcella’s flushed and grave and half-averted face. Mrs. Strobe, unnoting the demonstration, gave a sharp little satiric laugh, more like the fleering squawk of a jaybird than any merely human flout. “Dell-law, stranger, don’t ye b’lieve the haffen o’ that. ’Twarn’t no n’angel o’ mercy! I ain’t ’quainted with n’angels much myself, but I know enough ’bout ’em ter make mighty sure ez n’angels don’t go lopin’ ’round the Big Smoky seein’ arter the welfare o’ two sech good-lookin’ young men ez ye an’ Jake Baintree. It don’t need no wisdom from above ter know it air mighty safe ter trest ye ter some young yearthly woman, ’thout interruptin’ enny n’angel in her reg’lar business o’ quirin’ ’roun’ the throne o’ grace. Don’t ye never make no sech mistake ez that.” And once more it might be doubted whether it were the satiric old woman or some gay cynic of a bird that gave a short shriek of laughter.