night."
She glided past him into the house like a wraith, and he rose without a word of reply and stretched himself on the half-made bed in the loom shed, as he was. Sullen and angry, he lay far into the night with the moonlight streaming over him, but he did not sleep, and his mood only grew more bitter and dangerous.
When the first streak of dawn was drawn across the eastern sky, he rose unrefreshed, and began a search, feeling along the rafters high above the bags of cotton. Presently he drew forth an ancient, long-barrelled rifle, and, taking it out into the light, examined it carefully. He rubbed and cleaned the barrel and polished the stock and oiled the hammer and trigger. Then he brought from the same hiding-place a horn of powder and gun wadding, and at last took from his pocket the silver bullet, with which he loaded his old weapon even as he had seen it charged in past days by his father's hand.
Below the house, built over a clear welling spring which ran in a bright little rivulet to the larger stream, was the spring-house. Here, after the warm days came, the milk and butter were kept, and here Frale sauntered down—his gun slung across his arm, his powder-horn at his belt, in his old clothes—with his trousers thrust in his boot-tops—to search for provisions for the day and his breakfast as well. He had no mind to allow the family to oppose his action or reason him out of his course.
He found a jug of buttermilk placed there the evening before for Hoyle to carry to the doctor in the morning, and slung it by a