The grave face of the boy was still clouded with his new-born misgivings, and reading that perplexity, his kinsman went on: "Myself I've done been obleeged ter kill some sev'ral men. I plum deplores hit. I wouldn't hold no high notion of anybody thet tuck ther life of a feller-bein' without he _was_ plum obleeged ter do hit--ner of no man thet _didn't_ ef hit war his cl'ar duty. Hit's done been ther rise of fifty y'ars now since ther war first started up betwixt us an' ther Carrs. Hit warn't none of my doin', but ever since then--off an' on--my kinsfolk an' yourn hes done been shot down from ther la'rel--an' we've done hit back an' sought ter hold ther score even--or a leetle mite better. I've got my choice atween bein' run away from ther land whar I was born at or else"--he let his hand drop back with a simple gesture of rude eloquence until its fingers rested on the leaning rifle--"or else I hev need ter give my enemies ther only style of fightin' thet will avail. Seems like ter me hit'd be right cowardly ter run away." To the boy these principles had never before needed defence. They had been axioms, yet now he parried with a faltering demurrer: "Ther books says that, down below, when fellers fights, they does hit in ther open." "Alright. Thet's ther best way so long as _both_ of 'em air in ther open. But ef one stands out in ther highway an' tother lays back in ther timber, how long does ye reckon ther fight's a'goin' ter last? A man may love ter be above-board--but he's _got_ ter be practical." It was the man now who sat forgetful of his food, relapsing into a meditative silence. The leaping fire threw dashes of orange high-lights on his temple and jaw angle and in neither pattern of feature nor quality of eye was there that degenerate vacuity which one associates with barbarous cruelty. His wife, turning just then from the hearth, saw his abstraction--and understood. She knew what tides of anxious thought and bitter reminiscence had been loosed by the boy's questioning, and her own face too stiffened. Asa was thinking of the malign warp and woof which had been woven into the destiny of his blood and of the uncertain tenure it imposed upon his own life-span. He was meditating perhaps upon the wrinkled crone who had been his mother; "fittified" and mumbling inarticulate and unlovely vagaries over her widowed hearth. But Araminta herself thought of Asa: of the dual menace of assassination and the gallows, and a wave of nauseating terror assailed her. She shook the hair resolutely out of her eyes and spoke casually: "La! Asa, ye're lettin' yore vittles git plum cold whilst ye sets thar in a brown study." Inwardly she added with a white-hot ferocity of passion, "Ef they lay-ways him, or hangs him, thank God his baby's a man-child--an' I'll know how ter raise hit up ter take a full accountin'!"