hen he struck. He ought to have known I was
not the person to hit. I'll show you, just stand before me for a moment."

Phyl faced him. He pretended to strike at her and she started back.

"There you are," said he; "you know I wasn't going to touch you but you
had to dodge. Your mind had nothing to do with it, just your instinct.
That was how I was. When he landed his blow I went for my knife by
instinct. If you tread on a snake he lets out at you just the same way. He
doesn't think. He's wound up by nature to hit back."

"But you are not a snake."

"How do you know what's in a man? I reckon we've all been animals once,
maybe I was a snake. There are worse things than snakes. Snakes are all
right, they don't meddle with you if you don't meddle with them. They've
got a bad name they don't deserve. I like them. They're a lot better
citizens, the way they look after their wives and families, than some
others and they know how to hit back prompt--say, where are you going
to?"

"I don't know," said Phyl. "I just came for a walk--I'm leaving
Charleston."

She spoke with a little catch in her voice. All Silas's misdoings were
forgotten for the moment, the fact that the man was dangerous as Death to
himself and others had been neutralised in her mind by the fact,
intuitively recognised, that there was nothing small or mean in his
character. Despite his conduct in the cemetery, despite his lunatic
outburst of the night before, in her heart of hearts she liked him;
besides that, he was part of Charleston, part of the place she loved.

Ah, how she loved it! Had you dissected her love for Richard Pinckney you
would have found a thousand living wrappings before you reached the core.
Vernons, the garden, the birds, the flowers, the blue sky, the sunlight,
Meeting Street, the story of Juliet, Miss Pinckney, even old Prue.
Memories, sounds, scents, and colours all formed part of the living thing
that Frances Rhett had killed.

"Leaving Charleston!" said Silas, speaking in a dazed sort of way.

"Yes. I cannot stay here any longer."

"Going--say--it's not because of what I did last night."

"You--oh, no. It has nothing to do with you." She spoke almost
disdainfully.

"But where are you going?"

"Back to Ireland."

"When?"

"To-day."

Then, suddenly, in some curious manner, he knew. But he was clever enough,
for once in his life, to restrain himself and say nothing.

"I will go this afternoon," said she, as though she