hey had come to lynch.

"Nuther yore brag nor yore threats hain't agoin' ter avail ye none,
Parish Thornton--because yore time is done come. Thar's a hugeous big
tree astandin' out thar by yore front door, an' afore an hour's gone by,
ye're goin' ter be swingin' from hit. Folks norrates thet yore woman an'
you sets a heap of store by thet old walnuck an' calls hit ther roof
tree, an' believes hit holds a witch-spell ter safeguard ye.... We're
goin' ter see kin hit save ye now."

He paused, and at the mention of the walnut Dorothy clutched her hands
to her breast and caught her breath, but the man went on:

"Ye hain't no native-born man hyar, Thornton, albeit ye've done sought
ter run ther country like some old-time king or lord beyond ther
water.... Ye hain't nuthin' but a trespassin' furriner, nohow--an' we
don't love no tyrant. This roof-tree hain't yourn by no better right
then ther nest thet ther cuckoo steals from ther bird thet built
hit...."

Again he paused, then, added with a sneer:

"We don't even grant ye ownership of thet old walnuck tree--but we aims
ter loan hit ter ye long enough ter hang on." He halted and looked about
the place, then with cheap theatricism demanded:

"Who accuses this man? Let him stand ter ther front."

Three or four dark figures moved unhurriedly toward the centre of the
circle, but one who had not been rehearsed in his part stepped with a
more eager haste to the fore, and that one was Bas Rowlett.

"I don't know es I've rightly got no license ter speak up--amongst men
that I kain't _ree_cognize," he made hypocritical declaration, "but yit,
I kain't hardly hold my peace, because ye come in good season fer
me--an' saved my life."

After a momentary pause, as if waiting for permission to be heard, he
went on:

"This man thet I saved from death one time when somebody sought ter kill
him laywayed me an hour or so back, an' atter he'd done disarmed an'
maltreated me, he fotched me home hyar ter insult me some more in front
of his woman--afore he kilt me in cold blood.... He done them things
because I wouldn't censure an' disgust you men thet calls yoreself ther
riders."

Parish Thornton smiled derisively as he listened to that indictment,
then he capped it with an ironic amendment.

"We all knows ye're ther true leader of this murder-gang, Bas--ye don't
need ter be bashful erbout speakin' out yore mind ter yore own slaves."

Rowlett wheeled, his swarthy face burning to its