At last he spoke.  He begged abjectly to be set free.  He offered to leave the town at once and never return if the Elder would only let him go.

“What an’ give up all your land ye’ve got such a fine clear title to?” said the Elder, sarcastically.  “No; we’ll give ye a title there won’t be no disputin’ about to a good berth in Mill Creek jail for a spell!”

At this the terror mastered every other emotion in the Frenchman’s face.  What secret reason he had for it all, no one could know but himself; what iniquitous schemes already waiting him in other places, what complications of dangers attendant on his identification and detention.  He begged, he besought, in words so wildly imploring, so full of utter unconditional surrender, that there could be no question as to their sincerity.  The Elder began, in spite of himself, to pity the wretch; he began also to ask whether after all it would not be the part of policy to let him go.  After some minutes he said, “I can’t say I put much confidence in ye yet, Mr. Ganew; but I’m inclined to think it’s the Lord’s way o’ smoothin’ things for some o’ his children, to let you kind o’ slink off,” and somehow Elder Kinney fancied he heard little Draxy say, “Oh, sir, let the poor man go.”  There was something marvelous in his under-current of consciousness of “little Draxy.”

He rose to his feet, picked up the heavy ox-goad, struck the near ox sharply on the side, and walking on a little ahead of the team, said:  “I’ll just take ye down a piece, Mr. Ganew, till we’re in sight of Jim Blair’s, before I undo ye.  I reckon the presence o’ a few folks’ll strengthen your good resolutions.”  “An’ I mistrust I ain’t quite equal to another handlin,’” thought the Elder to himself, as he noted how the sunny road seemed to go up and down under his feet.  He was really far more hurt than he knew.

When they were in sight of the house, he stopped the oxen, and leaning again on the wheel, and looking down on Ganew, had one more talk with him, at the end of which he began cautiously to untie the rope.  He held the ox-goad, however, firmly grasped in his right hand, and it was not without a little tremor that he loosed the last knots.  “Suppose the desperate critter sh’d have a knife,” thought the Elder.

He need not have feared.  A more crestfallen, subdued, wretched being than Paul Ganew, as he crawled out of that cart, was never seen.  He had his own secret terror, and it had conquered him.  “It’s more’n me he’s afraid of,” said the Elder to himself.  “This is the Lord’s doin’, I reckon.  Now, Mr. Ganew, if you’ll jest walk to the heads o’ them oxen I’ll thank ye,” said he:  “an’ ‘s I feel some tired, I’ll jump into the cart; an’ I’ll save ye carryin’ the ox-goad,” he added, as he climbed slowly in, still holding the murderous weapon in his hand.  Nothing could extinguish Seth Kinney’s sense of humor.

“If we meet any folks,” he proceeded, “we’ve only to say that I’ve had a bad hurt, and that you’re very kindly takin’ me home.”