but old Kate had gone. We closed the barn, drawing the cart along
with us. When we came into the edge of the village I began to reflect
upon the strange peril out of which I had so luckily escaped. It gave me
a heavy sense of responsibility and of the wickedness of men.

I thought, of old Kate and her broken silence. For once I had heard her
speak. I could feel my flesh tingle when I thought of her quick words
and her hoarse passionate whisper. She must have come into the barn
while I was swimming and hidden behind the straw heap in the rear end of
it and watched the edge of the woods through the many cracks in the
boarding.

I knew, or thought I knew, why she took such care of me. She was in
league with the gallows and could not bear to see it cheated of its
prey. For some reason she hated the Grimshaws. I had seen the hate in
her eyes the day she dogged along behind the old money-lender through
the streets of the village when her pointing finger had seemed to say to
me: "There, there is the man who has brought me to this. He has put
these rags upon my back, this fire in my heart, this wild look in my
eyes. Wait and you shall see what I will put upon him."

I knew that old Kate was not the irresponsible, witless creature that
people thought her to be. I had begun to think of her with a kind of awe
as one gifted above all others. One by one the things she had said of
the future seemed to be coming true.

When we had pulled the cart into the stable I tried to shift one of the
bags of grain and observed that my hands trembled and that it seemed
very heavy.

As we were going into the house the schoolmaster said:

"Now, Mary, you take this lantern and go across the street to the house
o' Deacon Binks, the constable. You'll find him asleep by the kitchen
stove. Arrest his slumbers, but not rudely, and, when he has come to,
tell him that I have news o' the devil."

"This shows the power o' knowledge. Bart," he said to me when we entered
the house.

I wondered what he meant and he went on:

"You have knowledge of the shooting that no other man has. You could
sell it for any money ye would ask. Only ye can't sell it, now, because
it's about an evil thing. But suppose ye knew more than any other man
about the law o' contracts, or the science o' bridge building, or the
history o' nations or the habits o' bugs or whatever. Then ye become the
principal witness in a different kind o' case. Then it's proper to sell
yer kn