None the less, the vital affairs of the clan could not be balked by
consideration for a stranger, who, in the opinion of the majority,
should be driven from the country as an insidious mischief-maker.
Ostensibly, the truce still held, but at no time since its signing had
matters been so freighted with the menace of a gathering storm. The
attitude of each faction was that of several men standing quiet with
guns trained on one another's breasts. Each hesitated to fire, knowing
that to pull the trigger meant to die himself, yet fearing that another
trigger might at any moment be drawn. Purvy dared not have Samson shot
out of hand, because he feared that the Souths would claim his life in
return, yet he feared to let Samson live. On the other hand, if Purvy
fell, no South could balance his death, except Spicer or Samson. Any
situation that might put conditions to a moment of issue would either
prove that the truce was being observed, or open the war--and yet each
faction was guarding against such an event as too fraught with danger.
One thing was certain. By persuasion or force, Lescott must leave, and
Samson must show himself to be the youth he had been thought, or the
confessed and repudiated renegade. Those questions, to-day must answer.
It was a difficult situation, and promised an eventful entertainment.
Whatever conclusion was reached as to the artist's future, he was,
until the verdict came in, a visitor, and, unless liquor inflamed some
reckless trouble-hunter, that fact would not be forgotten. Possibly, it
was as well that Tamarack Spicer had not arrived.
Lescott himself realized the situation in part, as he stood at the
door of the house watching the scene inside.
There was, of course, no round dancing--only the shuffle and jig--with
champions contending for the honor of their sections. A young woman
from Deer Lick and a girl from the head of Dryhill had been matched for
the "hoe-down," and had the floor to themselves. The walls were crowded
with partisan onlookers, who applauded and cheered their favorite.
The bows scraped faster and louder; the clapping hands beat more
tumultuously, until their mad tempo was like the clatter of
musketry; the dancers threw themselves deliriously into the madly
quickening step. It was a riotous saturnalia of flying feet and
twinkling ankles. Onlookers shouted and screamed encouragement. It
seemed that the girls must fall in exhaustion, yet each kept on,
resolved to be still on the floor when the other had abandoned it in
defeat--that being the test of victory. At last, the girl from Dryhill
reeled, and was caught by half-a-dozen arms. Her adversary, holding the
floor undisputed, slowed down, and someone stopped the fiddler. Sally
turned from the crowded wall, and began looking about for Samson. He
was not there. Lescott had seen him leave the house a few moments
before, and started over to intercept the girl, as she came out to the
porch.