There were those who mocked, “I am God Almighty,” “The Father and the Son are one, and I am both of 'em put together,” and “Oh, Dylks, save us!” “Don't leave us, Dylks!” “Make the Devil jump, Joseph! Make him rattle his scales for us!” “Fetch on your miracle!” The believing women turned away; some of the younger tittered hysterically at a droll profanation of their idol's name, and then one of the ruffians applauded. “That's right, sisters! We like to have you enjoy yourselves. Promised to let anybody in particular see you home to-night?” The girls tried to control themselves, and laughed the more, and the Hound called, “Say, girls, let's have a dance--a dance before the Lord.” Jane Gillespie had come with her father in the family pride which forbade them to reject each other publicly. The girl stood a little apart from her father, and near her hung, wistfully, fearfully, the young farmer whom the neighborhood gossip had assigned her for an acceptable if not accepted lover. She looked steadfastly away from Hughey Blake, with her head lifted and her cheeks coldly flushed under the flame of her vivid hair: she was taller than the other girls, and showed above the young man. “Say, Hughey,” one of the Hounds spoke across the space they had left between them and the decent unbelievers, “Can't you gimme a light? Reach up!” He held out a cigar, in the joke of kindling it at the girl's hair. Hughey Blake turned, and his helpless retort, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” redoubled the joy of the Hounds. The girl glanced quickly at him, with what meaning he could not have made out, and it might have been fear of her which kept him hesitating whether to cross over and fall upon his tormentor. He looked at her as if for a sign, but she made as if she had heard nothing; then while he still hesitated a slender, sinewy young fellow came down the open ground, with a soft jolt in his gait like that of a rangy young horse. He wore high boots with his trousers pushed carelessly into their tops, and for a sign of week-day indifference to the occasion, a checked shirt, of the sort called hickory; he struck up the brim of his platted straw hat in front with one hand, and with the other on his hip stood a figure of backwoods bravery, such as has descended to the romance of later times from the reality of the Indian-fighting pioneers. “You fellows keep still!” he called out. “If you don't I'll make you.” Retorts of varied sense and nonsense came from the Hounds, but without malice in their note. One voice answered, “I'd like to see you try, Jim Redfield!” The other jolted closer toward the line of the Hounds, and leaned over. “Did I hear somebody speak?” he asked. “I reckon not, Jim,” the voice of his challenger returned. “Come to join the band?” “I didn't come to worry helpless women,” Redfield said.