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The room whirled around before Tessibel's gaze. She tried to draw her breath beneath the tightening grasp. The door burst open, and Frederick Graves received a desperate look of entreaty from the squatter-girl. The babe smacked loudly. The September wind whirled its rain and dead willow leaves over the hut floor. A rasping sound, like the filing of a saw, came from the tin roof.
Frederick pointed toward the door. Letts, muttering threats and curses against the student and the squatter-girl, stumbled out into the storm. Ben's head was splitting with pain. A gash on his nose bled until his torn sleeve was thickened with blood. He staggered out of the rays of the candle, and took the path to the hill. The sound of footsteps caused him to sink down beside the way and wait.
Frederick Graves took in the scene with one sharp glance. He saw the fisherman, in ugly doggedness, towering over the small figure of the squatter-girl. Then he flung himself upon Ben Letts. He tore Ben's fingers from Tessibel's neck, leaving the skin reddened and scratched by the nails. Tess sank to the floor.
Tess gathered her senses at the sound of his voice. "He were a-tryin' to make me come to his shanty with him to be his'n and I ain't a-goin'!" She whimpered a little, but choked back the tears, and raged: "A squatter-girl can't live a minute without some damn bloke wants to take her from her Daddy's shanty.... I ain't a-goin', I says!"
She called to him softly, pronouncing his name twice in loving resonance, which brought a low, pleased howl from the coarse throat of the dog. But the exhausted squatter-girl did not wait to touch the long, red tongue as Pete thrust his nose through the fence. She passed quickly down the lane to her father's hut.
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