“I certainly hear,” she replied calmly.  “Your voice is sufficiently distinct.  I am a slave, I suppose, and in your power; but I despise you, hate you—­and you are not going to take me to St. Louis tonight.”

“What can stop me?”

“That I am not obliged to tell you, sir.”

“But what will prevent?  The sheriff?  Puh! a few dollars will take care of him.  The Judge is a friend of mine.”

“It is not the sheriff—­nor the Judge; I place reliance on no friend of yours.”

He grasped at her arm, but she stepped back quickly enough to avoid contact, and the red lips were pressed together in a thin line of determination.  Kirby could not have seen what I did, or if he did see, failed to attach the same significance to the action.  Her hand had suddenly disappeared within the folds of her skirt; but the angry man, apparently blinded by the violence of his passion, his eagerness to crush her spirit, thought only that she counted on outside aid for deliverance.

“You silly little fool,” he snapped, his moustache bristling.  “Why, what could you do to stop me?  I could break your neck with one hand.  So you imagine someone is going to save you.  Well, who will it be?  Those yokels down at the Landing?  Haines, the lawyer?  You have a surprise up your sleeve for me, I suppose!  Hell! it makes me laugh; but you might as well have your lesson now, as any other time.  Come here, you wench!”

He caught her arm this time, brutally jerking her toward him, but as instantly staggered backward, grasping at the table, the flash of anger in his eyes changing to a look of startled surprise.  A pistol was leveled full in his face, the polished black barrel shining ominously in the light of the overhead lamp.

“Now perhaps you know what I mean,” she said.  “If you dare to touch me I will kill you like a dog.  That is no threat; it is true as God’s gospel,” and the very tone of her voice carried conviction.  “You say I am a slave—­your slave!  That may be so, but you will never possess me—­never!  Life means nothing to me any more, and I never expect to go out of this house alive; I do not even care to.  So I am not afraid of you.  Do you know why?  Probably not, for men of your kind would be unable to understand.  It is because I would rather die than have your dirty hand touch me—­a thousand times rather.  Do not drop your arms, you low-lived cur, for you have never been nearer death in all your miserable life than you are now.  God knows I want to kill you; it is the one desire of my heart at this moment to rid the earth of such a beast.  But I’ll give you one chance—­just one.  Don’t you dare call out, or answer me.  Do what I say.  Now step back—­back along the table; that’s it, a step at a time.  Oh, I knew you were a cowardly bully.  Go on—­yes, clear to that window; don’t lower those hands an inch until I say you may.  I am a slave—­yes, but I am also a Beaucaire.  Now reach behind you, and pull up the sash—­pull it up higher than that.”