of a man of fashion, his cravat and patent leather buttoned shoes were of the latest style; but his linen was soiled now, and a two-days’ growth of beard covered his chin.  Moreover, his eyes were bloodshot and, despite an effort to prevent, as he stood there now he wavered a bit to right and left.  One look told his story.  He had been drinking, drinking for days; and, worst of all, he had been drinking this day, drinking in anticipation of this very moment, swallowing courage against the necessity of the now.  All this the stage and its setting, upon which the white-faced minister raised the curtain.  Simultaneously, as ever an audience grows silent when the real play begins, it grew silent now.  The hinges of the little-used front door were rusty and had squeaked startlingly.  Otherwise not a sound marked the opening of the drama.

A moment following the silence was intense, a thing one could feel; then of a sudden it was broken—­not by words, but by action.  One step the white-skinned man took forward; a step toward the girl.  A second step he advanced, and halted; for, preventing, the hand of the other man was upon his own.

“Stand back, please,” said an even voice.  “It’s not time for congratulations yet.  Stand back, please.”

Answering there was a sound; but not articulate.  It was a curse, a challenge, a menace all in one; and with a hysterical terrified little cry the girl shrank back into the doorway itself.  But none other, not even the minister, stirred.

“Mr. Craig,” the words were low, almost intimately low, but in the stillness they seemed fairly loud.  “I ask you once more to stand back.  I don’t warn you, I merely request—­but I shall not ask it again.”  Of a sudden the speaker’s hand left the other’s arm, dropped by his own side.  “Stand back, please.”

Face to face the two men stood there; the one face working, passionate, menacing; the other emotionless as the blue sky overhead.  A moment they remained so while the breathless onlookers expected anything, while from the doorstep the minister’s white lips moved in a voiceless prayer; then slowly, lingeringly, the man who had advanced drew back.  A step he took silently, another, and his breathing became audible, still another, and was himself amid the spectators.  Then for the first time he found voice.

“You spoke your own sentence then, redskin,” he blazed.  “We’d have let you go if you’d given up the girl; but now—­now—­May God have mercy on your soul now, How Landor!”

Again there was silence; silence absolute.  As at that first meeting on the car platform, the girl had turned facing them.  It was the crisis, and as before an instinct which she did not understand, which she merely obeyed, brought her to the Indian’s side; held her there motionless, passive, mysteriously unafraid.  Her usually brown face was very pale and her eyes were unnaturally bright; but withal she was unbelievably calm—­calm as a child with its hand in its father’s hand.  Not even that solid zone of menacing, staring eyes had terror for her now.  Whether or no she loved him, as she believed in God she trusted in that motionless, dominant human by her side.