One little mercy was vouchsafed him and that was the sinking of the sun behind the hill; the blessed twilight came with its infinite suavity and the impalpable veils it draws across the harsh edges of things and thoughts. He saw the tide of the evening wind where it eddied along the grass and overflowed his hands and his face. He heard the farmer go up the dusty lane that muffled the tread of the tired horses, but not the little clink-clink of the harness rings. He supposed that the farmer was staring and wondering at him as he himself stared inside his own eyelids at the world within him, and wondered at that. It grew cold. His wife’s hands chilled as they clenched his. He could feel her shiver. He could just hear her whisper through her chattering teeth: “Please come in, Mist’ RoBards.” He put away her arms and got to his feet. Then his dignity took on the look of mere sulkiness. When he saw Patty unable to rise, and huddled in a dismal heap, he bent and lifted her to her feet. She seemed unable to stand or walk; so his arm of its own volition or habit went round her to hold her up. And at that she threw her arms about him and buried her face in his breast and sobbed. He looked through blurred eyes at the ambiguous sky where stars were thrilling in the rosy afterglow. In the dark house someone was lighting lamps. The lamps and the stars were tenderly beautiful, but they came only when all else was black. From the hall door a rug of warm yellow ran across the porch and down the steps into the path. The children began to call, “Mamma! Papa! where are you?” The house yearned toward him with its deep bosom. Something with the arms of a spirit reached out from it and drew him in. It was wrong to yield, but he had an utter need of peace for a while. He was wounded worse than Chalender, and needed more care. All that night it was as if Indians prowled about the house, savages that longed to drag forth the people within, to howl slanders and truths about them, to fasten them to stakes and dance a torture dance about them, cut off their eyelids and blind them with ruthless light. There were no Indians to fear now, save the stealthy reporters and the more merciless newspapers. But the house baffled them; it was a strong stockade. They should not have its children yet a while. It had won another day in its long battle against the invading strangers. CHAPTER XIV That night RoBards slept apart from his wife—in the spare room. He owed that much to his wrongs and she dared not try to wheedle him into the dangerous neighborhood of her beauty.