Mr. Nute suspended his reading, looked over his spectacles, and gave the required permission.  Perhaps it occurred to his official sense that a bit more dignified attire would suit the occasion better.  A flicker of gratification shone on his face at the thought that the Cap’n was so nobly and graciously rising to the spirit of the thing.

“It’s come, Louada Murilla—­it’s come!” gulped Cap’n Sproul, as he staggered into the kitchen, where his wife cowered in a corner.  “He’s readin’ a warrant.  He’s even got the Portygee’s name.  My Gawd, they’ll hang me!  I can’t prove northin’.”

“Oh, Aaron,” sobbed his wife, and continued to moan.  “Oh, Aaron—­” with soft, heartbreaking cluckings.

“Once the law of land-piruts gets a bight ’round ye, ye never git away from it,” groaned the Cap’n.  “The law sharks is always waitin’ for seafarin’ men.  There ain’t no hope for me.”

His wife had no encouragement to offer.

“Murder will out, Aaron,” she quaked.  “And they’ve sent three constables.”

“Them other two—­be they—?”

“They’re constables.”

“There ain’t no hope.  And it shows how desp’rit’ they think I be.  It shows they’re bound to have me.  It’s life and death, Louada Murilla.  If I don’t git anything but State Prison, it’s goin’ to kill me, for I’ve lived too free and open to be penned up at my time o’ life.  It ain’t fair—­it ain’t noways fair!” His voice broke.  “It was all a matter of discipline.  But you can’t prove it to land-sharks.  If they git me into their clutches I’m a goner.”

His pistols hung on the wall where Louada Murilla had suspended them, draped with the ribbons of peace.

“There’s only one thing to do,” he whispered, huskily, pointing at the weapons with quivering finger.  “I’ll shoot ’em in the legs, jest to hold ’em up.  I’ll git to salt water.  I know skippers that will take me aboard, even if they have to stand off the whole United States.  I’ve got friends, Louada, as soon as I git to tide-water.  It won’t hurt ’em in there—­a bullet in the leg.  And it’s life and death for me.  There’s foreign countries where they can’t take me up.  I know ’em, I’ve been there.  And I’ll send for you, Louada Murilla.  It’s the best I can think of now.  It ain’t what I should choose, but it’s the best I can think of.  I’ve had short notice.  I can’t let ’em take me.”

As he talked he seemed to derive some comfort from action.  He pulled on his boots.  He wriggled into his coat.  From a pewter pitcher high up on a dresser shelf he secured a fat wallet.  But when he rushed to take down the pistols his wife threw herself into his arms.

“You sha’n’t do that, Aaron,” she cried.  “I’ll go to State Prison with you—­I’ll go to the ends of the world to meet you.  But I couldn’t have those old men shot in our own house.  I realize you’ve got to get away.  But blood will never wash out blood.  Take one of their teams.  Run the horse to the railroad-station.  It’s only four miles, and you’ve got a half-hour before the down-train.  And I’ll lock ’em into the setting-room, Aaron, and keep ’em as long as I can.  And I’ll come to you, Aaron, though I have to follow you clear around the world.”