“Wonder if that deputy caught anything yet.  I’ve a good mind to meander up the road and see.”

But the question brought Ira to the door with a slight return of his former uneasiness.  He had no idea of subjecting his wife to another admiring interview.  “I reckon I’ll go myself,” he said dubiously; “You’d better stay and look after the house.”

Her eyes brightened as she carried a pile of plates to the dresser; it was possible she had foreseen this compromise.  “Yes,” she said cheerfully, “you could go farther than me.”

Ira reflected.  He could also send them about their business if they thought of returning.  He lifted his hat from the floor, took his rifle down carefully from its pegs, and slouched out into the road.  Sue watched him until he was well away, then flew to the back door, stopping only an instant to look at her face in a small mirror on the wall,—­yet without noticing her new prettiness,—­then ran to the barn.  Casting a backward glance at the diminishing figure of her husband in the distance, she threw open the door and shut it quickly behind her.  At first the abrupt change from the dazzling outer plain to the deep shadows of the barn bewildered her.  She saw before her a bucket half filled with dirty water, and a quantity of wet straw littering the floor; then lifting her eyes to the hay-loft, she detected the figure of the fugitive, unclothed from the waist upward, emerging from the loose hay in which he had evidently been drying himself.  Whether it was the excitement of his perilous situation, or whether the perfect symmetry of his bared bust and arms—­unlike anything she had ever seen before—­clothed him with the cold ideality of a statue, she could not say, but she felt no shock of modesty; while the man, accustomed to the public half-exposure in tights and spangles, was more conscious of detected unreadiness than of shame.

“Gettin’ the dust off me,” he said, in hurried explanation; “be down in a second.”  Indeed, in another moment he had resumed his shirt and flannel coat, and swung himself to the floor with a like grace and dexterity, that was to her the revelation of a descending god.  She found herself face to face with him,—­his features cleansed of dirt and grime, his hair plastered in wet curls on his low forehead.  It was a face of cheap adornment, not uncommon in his profession—­unintelligent, unrefined, and even unheroic; but she did not know that.  Overcoming a sudden timidity, she nevertheless told him briefly and concisely of the arrival and departure of his pursuers.

His low forehead wrinkled.  “Thar’s no getting away until they come back,” he said without looking at her.  “Could ye keep me in here to-night?”

“Yes,” she returned simply, as if the idea had already occurred to her; “but you must lie low in the loft.”

“And could you”—­he hesitated, and went on with a forced smile—­“you see, I’ve eaten nothing since last night.  Could you”—­