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Seibert sprang from his chair, rising with remarkable quickness for one of his great size; his arms flew out, and the muscles of his thick, heavy face worked as if he was being strangled; but a moment or two later his manner changed abruptly; discretion, self-control, fear, whatever it was, influenced him, so that almost in an instant his arms fell, and his face again became dully expressionless, his eyes a little dazed.

That afternoon old Combe walked moodily about his house, up and down the veranda, in and out of doors, all through the great, lonely, barn-like building. When night came, and his friends had not returned, he grew afraid that something had happened, and walked out among the trees to the road. The stars danced overhead in twinkling multitudes.

Combe was sure that something must have gone wrong. Seibert was a powerful man, with servants about him, and overseers that went armed.

For all of his years as a convict, Combe had never hurt anything more than a few hares in his boyhood poaching days, for which he had been deported; and though there was no sternness in his nature, his helplessness was not due to a lack of courage, but rather to a fuddling uncertainty of purpose. But now, as fears increased, and dread gave stimulation to his imaginings, he suddenly wished there were no children in his home; then, with a chill, ague-like feeling all through his body, he upraised his trembling arms in the shadows and swore that if his friends had come to harm, that he would take a pistol and go to Seibert and shoot him. The excitement of thinking such a thing caused him to shake from head to feet, and his mouth became so dry that he could not speak his oath aloud, though he tried.