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He was not so tortured, though, that he did not think of others. He paused on reaching the summit of the ascent, and looked back at the little house nestling in the ravine, the lamplight streaming through its open doors and windows across the path among the laurel bushes, where Rick’s gang had hitched their horses.

“I wonder,” said the old man, “if they are quiet and peaceable again; can you hear the music and dancing?”

“Not now,” said Kossuth. Then, after a moment, “Now, I kin,” he added, as the wind brought to their ears the oft-told tale of the rabbit’s gallopade in the pea-patch.”They’re a-dancin’ now, and all right agin.”

As they walked along, Mr. Kenyon’s racked conscience might have been in a slight degree comforted had he known that he was in some sort a revelation to the impressible lad at his side, that Kossuth had begun dimly to co
mprehend that a Christian may be a man of spirit also, and that bravado does not constitute bravery. Now that the heat of anger was over, the young fellow was glad that the fearless interposition of the warlike peace-maker had prevented any killing, “‘kase ef the old man hedn’t hung on ter my gun like he done, I’d have been a murderer like he said, an’ Rick would hev been dead. An’ the bay filly ain’t sech a killin’ matter nohow; of it war the roan three-year-old now, ‘t would be different.”