“Why,” he exclaimed, “this is the first time in months that I have gone out after supper,” and then something about the man made me lose my temper and I blurted out what was in my heart. “You lie!” I cried. “You lie, you damned spy!” And then Peter Johansen went white and suddenly whipping a knife from his clothes he leaped at me, striking wildly for any part of me that the blade might reach. At first he like to have got me, so unexpected and so venomous was the attack; but though I was struck twice on the arm and cut a little, I managed to ward the point from any vital part and in a moment I had seized his knife wrist. That was the end—I just twisted it a little—I did not mean to twist hard—and something snapped inside his wrist. Peter let out an awful scream, his knife dropped from his fingers and I pushed him from me and gave him a good kick as he was leaving—a kick that I think he will remember for some time. Then I picked up his knife and hurled it as far as I could in the direction of the river, and went on my way toward home—whistling. When I entered the house Mother came out of her room and putting her arms about my neck she clung closely to me. “Dear boy,” she murmured, “I am so happy, because you are happy. She is a dear girl and I love her as much as you do.” “What is the matter?” I asked. “What are you talking about?” “I heard you whistling,” she said, “and I knew what it meant—grown men whistle but once in their lives.” I picked her up in my arms and tossed her to the ceiling. “Oh, Mother, dear!” I cried, “I wish it were true, and maybe it will be some day—if I am not too much of a coward; but not yet.” “Then why were you whistling?” she asked, surprised and a bit skeptical, too, I imagine. “I whistled,” I explained, “because I just broke the wrist of a spy and kicked him across the road.” “Peter?” she asked, trembling. “Yes, Mother, Peter. I called him a spy and he tried to knife me.” “Oh, my son!” she cried. “You did not know. It is my fault, I should have told you. Now he will fight no more in the dark; but will come out in the open, and when he does that I am lost.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “I do not mind dying,” she said; “but they will take your father first, because of me.” “What do you mean?—I can understand nothing of what you are driving at.” “Then listen,” she said. “Peter wants me. That is the reason he is spying on your father. If he can prove something on him, and Father is taken to the mines or killed, Peter will claim me.” “How do you know this?” I asked. “Peter himself has told me that he wants me. He tried to make me leave your dear father and go with him, and when I refused he bragged that he was in the favor of the Kalkars and that he would get me in the end. He has tried to buy my honor with your father’s life. That is why I have been so afraid and so unhappy; but I knew that you and Father would rather die than have me do that thing and so I have withstood him.”