“Marcelly, set _down_!” exclaimed the old woman, with a sharp note of reproof. “Ef ye hed been a harnt a-poppin’ up out’n a grave, ye couldn’t hev skeered me wuss with yer suddint motions!” For the girl had started abruptly to her feet, her distended eyes fastened upon Rathburn, her face paling, her hand half outstretched, trembling violently. “The leader!” she echoed, sinking back upon the low bench under the coercive touch of Mrs. Strobe’s hand. “Who told him?” “He didn’t say, but somehow he got it out of the man who let the secret slip.” Marcella knitted her brows, and fixed her pondering eyes upon the fire; her breath was quick; the rich color had deserted her cheek. With one hand she mechanically tossed back the brown curling hair that fell heavily forward from her half-bent head, and ever and again she put back the locks with the same tremulous, unconscious gesture. “Hed them men no masks nor nuthin’?” demanded Eli Strobe, a hand on either knee, as he leaned slightly forward; he spoke with his pipe-stem fast between his teeth. “Faces bare as my hand,” replied Rathburn, holding up the member in the light of the fire. “Waal, sir, they be powerful brigetty an’ bold!” said Eli Strobe with displeasure. “They oughter hed the grace ter kiver thar faces, knowin’ ez thar actions be plumb agin the law,—conspiracy, an’ riot, an’ ef they hed hung ye, murder; it air agin the law.” “That’s why I am telling you,” said Rathburn. “They are a lawless gang, and if anything happens to me, you, as an officer of the law, are in possession of the facts, and know just how and where to lay your hand on the men, the ringleader especially. I only saw two of them; the other, the blacksmith, is a hap-hazard fellow, and does his bidding. The ringleader is the soul of the iniquity; it couldn’t move an inch without him.”