p her little walk, heard their
feet clumping on the little gallery floor. Her heart stopped. She stood
white-faced, her hands clasped. What was it? What did they mean? Were
they going to kill her boy? Had they killed him? Were they going to tell
her that? Were they going to kill her, too?

"Come on out!" she heard someone calling to her. It seemed to her that
she must go. In some strange hypnosis, her feet began to move,
unsanctioned by her volition.... She stood at the door facing them all,
her eyes large, her face showing her distress, her query, her new
terror. On her face indeed was written now the whole story of her
despair, her failure, her terrible unhappiness. She had aged by years,
these last twenty-four hours. Now sheer terror was written there also.
The mob! The lynchers! The avengers! What had they not and more than
once done in this little savage town?... A picture rose before her
mind ... a horrible picture out of the past. Wide-eyed, she caught at the
throat of her gown, caught at the covering of her bosom--and then went
at bay, as does any despairing creature that has been pressed too hard.

She looked down at them. Those nearest to her were masked. Back of them
rose groups of shoulders, rough clad, hats pulled down.... No, she did
not know one of them; she did not recognize even a face--or was not sure
she had done so. They jostled and shifted and pushed forward.

"No! No! Go back! Go on away!" she cried, pale, her eyes starting. And
again she called aloud, piteously, on that God who seemed to have
forsaken her.

"Come on out!" cried a voice, thick and husky. "Come on out, and hurry
up about it. Bring him out--we know he's here. We want Don Lane, and
we're going to git him--or we'll git you. Damn you, look out, or we'll
git you both! Where's that boy, that killed the marshal?"

"He's not here," answered Aurora, in a voice she would not have known to
be her own. "I don't know where he is. Believe me, if he's not there in
the jail, I don't know where he is. What do you want of him? He's not
here--I give you my word he's not."

She still stood, near the door, her hands clutching at her clothing, a
mortal terror in her soul, her frail woman's body the only fence now for
her home, no longer sanctuary.

"You lie! We know he is here--he ain't in the jail. If the sher'f let
him out, he'd come here. You've got him hid. Bring him out--it's no use
trying to get him away from us. We want him, and we've come