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Updated: May 9, 2025
Scofield looked upon Gaunt as one of the saints upon earth, but he "danged him" after that once or twice to himself for doubting the girl; and when Bone, who had heard it, "guessed Mist' Dode 'd never fling herself away on sich whinin' pore-white trash," his master said nothing in reproof. He rumpled her hair fondly, as she stood by him now on the porch.
Dode led the way to the opening indicated, passed, with the others at his heels, through a long passage, and finally came to a plank door which was securely fastened on the inside. From this position the racket outside became only a hum. The boy unfastened the door and swung it inside. Beyond lay the slope, and, beyond that, the valley and the distant mountains.
The men coming up the west slope had not yet reached the summit, and the men below were still hiding behind the tent. Teddy was approaching the fire. "They'll get the kid in a minute!" Jimmie said. "I don't know about that," Frank replied. "He seems to me to be getting suspicious. Notice how he stops and looks around probably looking for Oliver or Dode."
"If Frank keeps that racket going," Ned answered, motioning the group toward the door by which he had entered, "we may be able to get out without being seen. You can tell me how you got caged later on. Now we'll try the door." "Wait!" whispered Jimmie. "Wait!" said Dode. Ned turned and faced both boys with enquiring eyes. "Why wait?" he asked. "I want my gun!" Jimmie replied.
The sickly Louisianian, following her son from Pickens to Richmond, besieging God for vengeance with the mad impatience of her blood, or the Puritan mother praying beside her dead hero-boy, would have called Dode cowardly and dull. So would those blue-eyed, gushing girls who lift the cup of blood to their lips with as fervid an abandon as ever did French bacchante. Palmer despised them.
Do you want me till curse my boy's old chum?" his voice hoarse, choking. "He is George's friend still" "I know, Gaunt, I know. God forgi' me! But let me go, I say!" He broke away, and went across the field. Gaunt waited, watching the man coming slowly towards him. Could it be he whom Dode loved, this Palmer? A doubter? an infidel? He had told her this to-day.
Coming up to it, she stood in the door-way. Douglas Palmer lay on a heap of blankets on the ground: she could not see his face, for a lank, slothful figure was stooping over him, chafing his head. It was Gaunt. Dode went in, and knelt down beside the wounded man, quietly: it seemed to her natural and right she should be there.
Yet Dode suffered: the man was generous to his heart's core, forgot his own want in pity for her. What could it have been that pained her, as he came away? Her father had spoken of Palmer. That? His ruled heart leaped with a savage, healthy throb of jealousy. Something he saw that moment made him stop short.
Was that thing that rose and fell in the roots of the old willow his dead hand? There was a floating gleam of yellow in the water, it looked like hair. Dode put her hand to her hot breast, shut her dry lips. He was not dead! God could not lie to her!
The Norseman's eyes filled; he stretched a hand to the O'Keefe. "The Yndling she is of the de Dode," he half whispered, "of the blessed dead. For her I have no fear and for her vengeance will be given me. Ja! But my Helma she is of the dead-alive like those we saw whirling like leaves in the light of the Shining Devil and I would that she too were of de Dode and at rest.
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