She obeyed his command.  It brought a flush to the face of Bull Hunter and made his head bow.  He shuffled to the stump and stood aimlessly beside it.

“Get down into the hole, you fool!” ordered Joe.

He and Harry took a certain pride in ordering their cousin around.  It was like performing with a lion in the presence of a lady; it was manipulating an elephant by power of the unaided voice.  Slowly Bull Hunter dropped his great feet into the hole and then raised his head a little and looked wistfully to the brothers for further orders.

But only half his mind was with them.  The other half was with the story in the book.  There Quentin Durward had been nodding at his guard in the castle, and the evil-faced little king had just sprung out and wrenched the weapon from the hands of the sleepy boy.  Bull Hunter could see the story clearly, very clearly.  The scar on the face of Le Balafré glistened for him; he had veritably tasted the little round loaves of French bread that the adventurer had eaten with the pseudo-merchant.

But to step out of that world of words into this keen sunlight—­ah, there was the difference!  The minds which one found in the pages of a book were understandable.  But the minds of living men—­how terrible they were!  One could never tell what passed behind the bright eyes of other human beings.  They mocked one.  When they seemed sad they might be about to laugh.  The minds of the two brothers eluded him, mocked him, slipped from beneath the slow grasp of his comprehension.  They whipped him with their scorn.  They dodged him with their wits.  They bewildered him with their mockery.

But they were nothing compared with the laughter of the girl.  It went through him like the flash and point of Le Balafré’s long sword.  He was helpless before that sound of mirth.  He wanted to hold up his hands and cower away from her and from her dancing eyes.  So he stood, ponderous, tortured, and the three pairs of clear eyes watched him and enjoyed his torture.  Better, far better, that dark castle in ancient France, and the wicked Oliver and the yet more wicked Louis.

“Lay hold on that stump,” shouted Harry.

He heard the directions through a haze.  It was twice repeated before he bowed and set his great hands upon the ragged projections, where the side roots had been cut away.  He settled his grip and waited.  He was glad because this bowed position gave him a chance to look down to the ground and avoid their cruel eyes.  How bright those eyes were, thought Bull, and how clearly they saw all things!  He never doubted the justice behind their judgments of him; all that Bull asked from the world was a merciful silence—­to let him grub in his books now and then, or else to tell him how to go about some simple work, such as digging with a pick.  Here one’s muscles worked, and there was no problem to disturb wits which were still gathering wool in the pages of some old tale.