is breath
came heavily as he lifted and stooped. In the midst of his labours a
slight noise at the cave entrance brought him to his feet, staring in
terror. The sight of trembling Gideon Rust in the opening reassured him.

"Come in here, you old davil, and help me jug this whiskey," he cried
out. "Whar's Scalf? How come you an' him to let them boys git away? What
do you reckon I'm a-goin' to do to you for it?"

"Why, is them fellers gone?" quavered the old man, craning his neck to
look gingerly in. "I never seen nothin' movin' up here, but--they was a
gal or so come norratin' past on the path; I 'lowed when I seed calicker
that it mought be Huldy, you named her so free."

"Well, shut yo' fool mouth and get yo'se'f to work," ordered Blatch.
"I've got to be out o' this."

He turned his back on old Gid and forgot him.

"Ef I thort I had time I'd take my still with me," he ruminated, going
close to it and laying a fond touch upon the copper-work. "I'm a mind to
try it."

"Hands up, Turrentine!" came a short sharp order from outside. Blatch
whirled like a flash, and looked past Gideon Rust in the doorway. Over
the old man's shaking shoulders, he saw the levelled rifles of the
marshal and his posse.

"Thar," whispered ancient Gideon fairly weeping, as they closed in on
Turrentine and snapped the handcuffs on his wrists, "now mebbe ye won't
name a pore old woman's name so free, ef you _have_ bought her to yo'
will, and set her to spy on them that's been good friends to her."

Chapter XXVII

Love's Guerdon

When Judith left Andy in charge of her patient and mounted the ladderlike
stair to her own small room under the eaves, she felt no disposition to
sleep. She did not undress, but sat down by the window and stared out
into the black November night. Despite everything, there had come a sort
of peace over her tumult, a stilling that was not mere weariness. She was
like a woman who has just been saved from a shipwreck, snatched away from
the imminent jaws of doom--chastened, and wondering a little. Intensely
thankful for what she had escaped, she sat there in the dark, cold little
room, Judith Barrier, safe from the sin of a godless union, from the life
that would have been hers as Blatchley Turrentine's wife.

In the light of her danger, familiar things took on a new face, strange,
yet dear and welcome. She turned and gazed with childish eyes up at the
decent beams of her rooftree, glad that they still shelt