d bow and flourish, he took
his seat, and assumed a pose of invulnerable righteousness from which no
invectives nor innuendoes of the prosecuting attorney could move him. He
had rested his case on the testimony of his "fahmily," and he knew his
jury too well to have much anxiety about their verdict.

The lamps had been lighted long ago, and the early winter evening had
set in. The court took a recess, waiting the verdict of the jury. This
was the last case on the trial docket for that day.

Rumpety was standing, broad and unblushing, before the stove, whither,
in obedience to his commands, his wife and children had also repaired.
With true prairie courtesy the men had placed chairs for the Rumpety
"fahmily," and an unsuccessful attempt was made to converse with them on
indifferent topics.

Rumpety stood, plainly gloating over his victims, the queer gleam in his
eyes growing more intense every minute.

Mrs. Rumpety did not share her husband's confidence in the issue. Once,
when the judge spoke a kind word to her, she muttered, "Ach, your honor!
don't let 'em put the costs on us! Don't let 'em put the costs on us!"
and Rankin, standing by, realized with a pang that even this misery
could be increased.

The situation was oppressive. Rankin sauntered out of the room and out
of the court-house, closing the door behind him. The air was intensely
cold; the stars glittered sharply. He liked it outside; he felt the same
relief and exhilaration which he had experienced when he first took
possession of his "claim," three years before, and felt himself lord
over the barren sweep of prairie. There had been hardship in it; the
homely comforts of his father's little down-east farm were lacking,--but
it was freedom. Freedom! It used to seem to Rankin, before he knew Myra
Beckwith, that freedom was all he wanted in life. This shy, awkward,
longlimbed fellow had desired nothing so much as room enough, and he had
wrested it from Fate.

He wondered, as he stood out under the stars, why Mrs. Rumpety and her
children did not run away. The world was big enough and to spare. They
would probably starve, to be sure; but starvation was infinitely better
than bondage.

The door at his elbow closed sharply, and a voice cried,--

"Hullo, Rank! did you know that those blamed idiots had acquitted him?"

"I knew they would." Rankin answered, with a jerk which betokened
suppressed emotion.

"There's nothing left now but lynching," his friend