Tess of the Storm Country

An hour later, the regular breathing of her father and mother told Myra that they both slept. Ezra, too, was sleeping, for she had bent over him but a little time before. The clock on the mantel pointed to midnight. The girl rose, and fed the baby, dropping some paregoric into his milk to keep him asleep, and then drew a large shawl about the little one, rolling him gently in the warm folds. Finally, she took a piece of paper and a pencil from the shelf.

"Mammy," she wrote, "I's a-goin' to save Ben Letts. Ezy tells ye about it, as how Ben Letts killed the gamekeeper it werent Orn Skinner. I takes the brat cause it air Bens I luves yer and Satisfied."

She pinned the note to the handle of the copper kettle upon the stove, and, lifting the child in her arms, slipped through the door without a sound.

The rain still fell steadily, the turbulent roll of the lake lost only in thunder's roar. Once on the ragged rocks, Myra walked swiftly, afraid of the shadowy objects and ghostly sounds that spectered her path. She threw despairing glances about her, and shrank from the imaginary sneaking figures haunting the dismal night. Almost running, she reached the Letts' shanty.

How soon would the officers come for Ben? They might have been there before her. The cabin was dark, and she tapped timidly upon the kitchen door. Only a great snore from the sleeping Ben inside answered her. Trying the latch, it lifted in her fingers, and she crept stealthily through the narrow aperture, encircling the child with her left arm.

"Ben!" she whispered. "Ben!"

The squatter turned, muttering sleepily.

"Mammy! What be the matter, Mammy?" The fresh night air startled him.

"Who air it?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Myry," breathed the woman again. "Get up.... They air a-comin' to take ye to prison for the killin' of the gamekeeper. I comed to help ye, Ben Letts."

The words soaked slowly into the sluggish brain. Tired from the beating Frederick had given him, and lazy by temperament, Ben did not at first realize that Myra's message meant the hangman's rope for him. He turned again in bed, and sat up. Were the officers of the law waiting for him?

"Ezy air home," resumed Myra rapidly, leaning tensely toward him. "He walked through the rain from Ithacy. He says as how ye air goin' to be tooked to prison. I has the brat here with me ... we air a-goin' away.... Get up, Ben. Hustle yer bones!"