Sybil was sitting one day by an open window when Beelzebub dashed suddenly into view.  He was on horseback, riding barebacked, and was evidently in a ferment of excitement.  He bawled some incoherent words as he passed the window, words which Sybil could not distinguish, but which nevertheless sent a sharp sense of foreboding through her heart.  Had he—­or had he not—­yelled something to her about “Boss”?  She could not possibly have said, but the suspicion was sufficiently strong to rouse her to lean out of the window and try to catch something of what the boy was saying.

He had reached the yard, and had flung himself off the sweating animal.  As she peered forth she caught sight of Curtis coming out of the stable.  Beelzebub saw him too, and broke out afresh with his wild cry.  This time, straining her ears to listen, she caught the words, all jumbled together though they were.

“Boss got smallpox!”

She saw Curtis stop dead, and she wondered if his heart, like hers, had ceased to beat.  The next instant he moved forward, and for the first time she saw him deliberately punch the gesticulating negro’s woolly head.  Beelzebub cried out like a whipped dog and slunk back.  Then, very calmly, Curtis took him by the scruff of his neck, and began to question him.

Sybil stood, gripping the curtain, and watched it all as one watches a scene on the stage.  Somehow, though she knew herself to be vitally concerned, she felt no agitation.  It was as if the blood had ceased to run in her veins.

At length she saw Curtis release the palpitating Beelzebub, and turn towards the house.  Quite calmly she also turned.

They met in the passage.

“You needn’t trouble to keep it from me,” she said.  “I know.”

He gave her a keen look.

“I am going to him at once,” was all he said.

She stood quite still, facing him; and suddenly she was conscious of a great glow pulsing through her, as though some arrested force had been set free.  She knew that her heart was beating again, strongly, steadily, fearlessly.

“I shall come with you,” she said.

She saw his face change.

“I am sorry,” he said, “but that is out of the question.  You must know it.”

She answered him instantly, unhesitatingly, with some of the old, quick spirit that had won Brett Mercer’s heart.

“There you are wrong.  I know it to be the only thing possible for me to do.”

Curtis looked at her for a second as if he scarcely knew her, and then abruptly abandoned the argument.

“I will not be responsible,” he said, turning aside.

And she answered him unfalteringly: 

“I will take the responsibility.”

XVIII

Slowly Brett Mercer raised himself and tried to peer through his swollen eyelids at the door.

“Don’t bring any woman here!” he mumbled.