Her anger waned a little, and
her heart began to beat fast, but she acted with courage and
promptitude.

"Let un be to-night--auld fox, I mean. Theer 'm more chicks than young
foxes, come to think of it; an' he 'm awnly doin' what you forget to
do--fighting for his vixen an' cubs."

She looked straight into Will's eyes, took the gun out of his hands,
climbed on to a chair, and hung the weapon up again in its place.

He laughed curiously, and helped his wife to the ground again.

"Thank you," she said. "Now go an' do what you want to do, an' doan't
forget the future happiness of women an' childer lies upon it." Her
anger was nearly gone, as he spoke again.

"How little you onderstand me arter all these years--an' never
will--nobody never will but mother. What did 'e fear? That I'd draw
trigger on the man from behind a tree, p'r'aps?"

"No--not that, but that you might be driven to kill yourself along o'
having such a bad wife."

"Now we 'm both on the mad road," he said bitterly. Then he picked up
his stick and, a moment later, went out into the night.

Phoebe watched his tall figure pass over the river, and saw him
silhouetted against dead silver of moonlit waters as he crossed the
stepping-stones. Then she climbed for the gun again, hid it, and
presently prepared for her father's return.

"What butivul peace an quiet theer be in ministerin' to a gude faither,"
she thought, "as compared wi' servin' a stormy husband!" Then sorrow
changed to active fear, and that, in its turn, sank into a desolate
weariness and indifference. She detected no semblance of justice in her
husband's outburst; she failed to see how circumstances must sooner or
late have precipitated his revolt; and she felt herself very cruelly
misjudged, very gravely wronged.

Meantime Blanchard passed through a hurricane of rage against his enemy
much akin to that formerly recorded of John Grimbal himself, when the
brute won to the top of him and he yearned for physical conflict. That
night Will was resolved to get a definite response or come to some
conclusion by force of arms. His thoughts carried him far, and before he
took up his station within the grounds of the Red House, at a point from
which the avenue approach might be controlled, he had already fallen
into a frantic hunger for fight and a hope that his enemy would prove of
like mind. He itched for assault and battery, and his heart clamoured to
be clean in his breast again.

Whatever m