“Very soon now, dear.”  Hannibal was greatly consoled by this opinion.

“Miss Betty, he will love to find us—­”

“Hark!  What was that?” for Betty had caught the distant splash of oars.  Hannibal found a chink in the logs through which by dint of much squinting he secured a partial view of the bayou.  “They’re fetching up a keel boat to the shore, Miss Betty—­it’s a whooper!” he announced.  Betty’s heart sank, she never doubted the purpose for which that boat was brought into the bayou, or that it nearly concerned herself.

Half an hour later Mrs. Hicks appeared with their breakfast.  It was in vain that Betty attempted to engage her in conversation, either she cherished some personal feeling of dislike for her prisoner, or else the situation in which she herself was placed had little to recommend it, even to her dull mind, and her dissatisfaction was expressed in her attitude toward the girl.

Betty passed the long hours of morning in dreary speculation concerning what was happening at Belle Plain.  In the end she realized that the day could go by and her absence occasion no alarm; Steve might reasonably suppose George had driven her into Raleigh or to the Bowens’ and that she had kept the carriage.  Finally all her hope centered on Judge Price.  He would expect Hannibal during the morning, perhaps when the boy did not arrive he would be tempted to go out to Belle Plain to discover the reason of his nonappearance.  She wondered what theories would offer themselves to his ingenious mind, for she sensed something of that indomitable energy which in the face of rebuffs and laughter carried him into the thick of every sensation.

At noon, Mrs. Hicks, as sullen as in the morning, brought them their dinner.  She had scarcely quitted the loft when a shrill whistle pierced the silence that hung above the clearing.  It was twice repeated, and the two women were heard to go from the cabin.  Perhaps half an hour elapsed, then a step became audible on the packed earth of the dooryard; some one entered the room below and began to ascend the narrow stairs, and Betty’s fingers closed convulsively about Hannibal’s.  This was neither Mrs. Hicks nor her daughter, nor Slosson with his clumsy shufe.  There was a brief pause when the landing was reached, but it was only momentary; a hand lifted the bar, the door was thrown open, and its space framed the figure of a man.  It was John Murrell.

Standing there he regarded Betty in silence, but a deep-seated fire glowed in his sunken eyes.  The sense of possession was raging through him, his temples throbbed, a fever stirred his blood.  Love, such as it was, he undoubtedly felt for her and even his giant project with all its monstrous ramifications was lost sight of for the moment.  She was the inspiration for it all, the goal and reward toward which he struggled.

“Betty!” the single word fell softly from his lips.  He stepped into the room, closing the door as he did so.