“He’s goin’ to face it out,” said the sheriff; “or maybe he wasn’t expectin’ Asa to be found yet.”

The picnic van stopped beside the field and the armed posse scrambled out, holding its weapons threateningly; but as Abner was armed with nothing more lethal than a hoe there was some appearance of embarrassment among them, and more than one man endeavored to make his shooting iron invisible by dropping it in the long grass.

“Come on,” said the sheriff, and in a body the posse advanced across the field toward Abner, who leaned upon his hoe and waited for them.  “Abner Levens,” said the sheriff, in a voice which was not of the steadiest, “I arrest you for murder.”

Abner looked at the sheriff; Abner looked from one to another of the posse in silence.  It seemed as if he were not going to speak, but at last he did speak.

“Then Asa Levens is dead,” he said.

It was not a question; it was a statement, made with conviction.  Scattergood Baines noted that Abner called his brother by name as if desiring to avoid the matter of blood kindred; that he made no denial.

“You know it better than anybody,” said the sheriff.

Abner looked past the sheriff, over the uneven fields, with their rock fences, and beyond to the green slopes of the mountains as they upreared distinct, majestic, imposing in their serene permanence against the undimmed summer sky.

“Asa Levens is dead,” said Abner, presently.  “Now I know that God is not infinite in everything....  His patience is not infinite.”

“It’s my duty to warn you that anythin’ you say kin be used ag’in’ you,” said the sheriff.  “Be you comin’ along peaceable?”

“I’m comin’ peaceable,” said Abner.  “If God’s satisfied—­I be.”

Abner Levens was locked in the unreliable jail of Coldriver village, and a watch placed over him.  Those who saw him marveled at his demeanor; Scattergood Baines marveled at it, for it was not the demeanor of a man—­even of an innocent man—­accused of a crime for which the penalty was death.  Abner sat upon the hard bench and looked quietly, even placidly, out at the brightness of day, as it was apparent beyond flimsy iron bars, and his expression was the expression of contentment.

He had not demanded the benefit of legal guidance; he had neither affirmed nor denied his guilt; indeed, he had uttered no word since the door of the jail had closed behind him.

Mary Ware spoke to the young man through the window of the jail in full view of all Coldriver.

“You didn’t do it, Abner.  I know you didn’t do it,” she said, so that all might hear, “and if you still want me, Abner, like you said, I’ll stick by you through thick and thin.”

“Thank ye, Mary,” Abner replied.  “Now I guess you better go away.”

“What shall I do, Abner—­to help you?”

“Nothing Mary.  Looks like God’s took aholt of matters.  Better let him finish ’em in his own way.”