"I'd think so," said Lauria indignantly. "Another woman could take advantage of something like that and make a good haul." There was a silence. Then Cholli said slily: "Did you want to get a message to some man--or get the word around that...?" "Certainly not!" she retorted firmly. "I abide by the Constitution, and I value my privacy." "Okay, Lauria. I just thought I could get the word passed for you." He grinned. "If it weren't for this bum arm, I might have tried for you myself before now." The music stopped and they parted. "Wait, Cholli!" cried Lauria in a low intense voice. He turned and came back to her, looking at her quizzically. "Cholli," she said, almost in a whisper, "pass the word around tonight that no young man will find my home defended!" She turned her back quickly, her face flaming, and left the hall, picking up her scarf and gun at the door. She walked home alone, swiftly, holding up the hem of her skirt with her left hand and hoping savagely that someone would try to waylay her. * * * * * It was midnight when the alarm bell sounded. Lauria had been sitting in the parlor, with no light but that of the fire, a hot drink in her hand, lost in turbulent thoughts. Her thoughts twisted slightly. Had she made it plain to Cholli that only young men would be welcome? But how could she toss aside everything in which she had believed for so long, on an impulse? Would she not redeem herself by shooting down any invader? Shame was upon her now, for having told Cholli what she did. It was not the perverse shame that had run hot in her that night when she had fought Poll and wanted to be defeated, but the shame of having done what she scorned other women for doing. But Lauria was lonely now, and the fire was not as warm as it once had been. How many years had it been--ten? fifteen?--since the last young man had won her outer wall, only to fall beneath her bullets in the moon-shadows? Could she turn now to the ways of other women, to dissemble, to shoot wide of the mark and put up a false defense? Could she now betray the weapons that had served her so well and true? Or would there be a thirteenth grave in the little cemetery on the morrow? The bell chattered nervously. She arose and threw ashes on the fire. A weariness was in her bones. She took a gun from the rack and made the rounds of the house, checking the locks of doors and windows. All was secure. More lithely, like a pantheress, she went from window to window, looking out, her gun ready. Some of the old wine of battle quickened in her blood. The moon was bright, and the trees stood in great pools of shadow on the grounds. The bushes stood like dark, bulky sentinels. At last she saw him, a moving shadow against the still shadows, creeping closer to the house. Her gun came up and she took aim, carefully, through the barred window. Her hands were as cold as ice on the gunstock.