“Whoopee!  Whoopee!” It was nearer.  Then she heard the steady tramp of horses’ hoofs.  She rose and went to the window, moving softly, that her ear might not lose any of the sounds.  She raised the window cautiously and looked out.  The moon was shining brightly, and down the street beyond the livery-stable she saw a body of horsemen.

“Great Heavens!” she exclaimed; “it’s the ’Whitecaps’!”

She drew back behind the curtains as the horsemen rode up to the hotel and stopped.  There were twenty or more, and each wore a white cap, a white mask, and a white sheet over the body.

“Thar’s whar the scrimmage tuck place,” explained some one in a muffled voice, and a white figure pointed to the spot where Westerfelt and Wambush had fought.  “We must hurry an’ take ‘im out, an’ have it over.”

Harriet Floyd heard some one breathing behind her.  It was Westerfelt.  His elbow touched her as he leaned towards the window and peered out.  “Oh, it’s you!” she cried.  “Go back to bed, you—­”

He did not seem to hear her.  The moonlight fell on his face.  It was ghastly pale.  He suddenly drew back beside her to keep from being observed by the men outside.  His lips moved, but they made no sound.

“Go back to bed,” she repeated.  She put out her hand and touched him, but she did not look at him, being unable to resist the fascination of the sight in the street.

“What do they want?” he whispered.  He put his hand on an old-fashioned what-not behind him, and the shells and ornaments on it began to rattle.

“I don’t know,” she said; “don’t let ’em see you; you couldn’t do anything against so many.  They are a band sworn to protect one another.”

“His friends?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Ah, I see.”  He glanced at the two doors, one opening into the hall, the other into his room, and then he swayed and clutched the curtain.

She caught his arm and braced him up.  “Oh, you must go lie down; you’ll—­”

A noise outside drew her back to the window.  The band was crossing the street to the jail.

“What are they going to do?” He steadied himself, resting his hand on her shoulder, and looked through a pane above her head.

“To take Toot out.”

“An’ then he’ll lead them, won’t he?”

“I don’t know!  I reckon so—­oh, I can’t tell!” She faced him for an instant, a look of helpless indecision in her eyes; then she turned again to the window.

“I’ll go slip on my coat,” he said.  “I—­I’m cold.  I’d better get ready.  You see, he may want to—­call me out.  I wish I had a gun—­or something.”

She made no answer, and he went into his room.  He turned up the lamp, but quickly lowered it again.  He found his coat on a chair and put it on.  He wondered if he were actually afraid.  Surely he had never felt so before; perhaps his mind was not right—­his wound and all his mental trouble had affected his nerves, and then a genuine thrill of horror went over him.  Might not this be the particular form of punishment Providence had singled out for the murderer of Sally Dawson—­might it not be the grewsome, belated answer to her mother’s prayer?