She pinned the note to the handle of the copper kettle upon the stove, and, lifting the child in her arms, slipped through the door without a sound. The rain still fell steadily, the turbulent roll of the lake lost only in thunder's roar. Once on the ragged rocks, Myra walked swiftly, afraid of the shadowy objects and ghostly sounds that spectered her path. She threw despairing glances about her, and shrank from the imaginary sneaking figures haunting the dismal night. Almost running, she reached the Letts' shanty. How soon would the officers come for Ben? They might have been there before her. The cabin was dark, and she tapped timidly upon the kitchen door. Only a great snore from the sleeping Ben inside answered her. Trying the latch, it lifted in her fingers, and she crept stealthily through the narrow aperture, encircling the child with her left arm. "Ben!" she whispered. "Ben!" The squatter turned, muttering sleepily. "Mammy! What be the matter, Mammy?" The fresh night air startled him. "Who air it?" he demanded hoarsely. "Myry," breathed the woman again. "Get up.... They air a-comin' to take ye to prison for the killin' of the gamekeeper. I comed to help ye, Ben Letts." The words soaked slowly into the sluggish brain. Tired from the beating Frederick had given him, and lazy by temperament, Ben did not at first realize that Myra's message meant the hangman's rope for him. He turned again in bed, and sat up. Were the officers of the law waiting for him? "Ezy air home," resumed Myra rapidly, leaning tensely toward him. "He walked through the rain from Ithacy. He says as how ye air goin' to be tooked to prison. I has the brat here with me ... we air a-goin' away.... Get up, Ben. Hustle yer bones!" The blue-jeans breeches, streaked with the blood of many a fish, were drawn on in a twinkling. The great squatter boots quickly covered the horny feet, and trembling, Ben waited for Myra to lead him from the cabin. "Where be we a-goin'?" he asked in a whisper. "I takes ye 'cross the lake to Ludlowville, and then we goes into the hills. A awful storm air a-scootin' along from the north, but we can't wait, for ye'll be took." By this time they were nearing the shore. The autumn lightning shot out from the sky, veering to the north and unmasking the black, raging lake and the distant city. A heavy roll of awe-inspiring thunder followed the flash. The man and woman did not speak until the flat boat topped the breaking waves. "The storm air a-goin' to be worse," shouted Ben, scanning the dark clouds. "It air foolhardy to try it, ain't it, Myry?" "Yep; but we go, all the same. I stays with ye, Ben!"