The arrival of the four visitors at Tallwoods, and their departure so soon thereafter, were events of course not unknown to Josephine, but only conjecture could exist in her mind as to the real nature of the errand in either case.  Jeanne, her maid, speculated as to this openly.

“That docteur also, he is now gone,” said she, ruefully.  “But yet, behold the better opportunity for us to escape, Madame.  Ah, were it not for the injury of madame, I should say, let us at once set out ­we could follow the road.”

“But they will return!” exclaimed her mistress.  “We can not tell how long they will be gone.  And, Jeanne, I suffer.”

“Ah, my poor angel!  You suffer!  It is criminal!  We dare not start.  But believe me, Madame, even so, it is not all misfortune.  Suppose we remain; suppose Monsieur Dunwodee comes back?  You suffer.  He has pity.  Pity is then your friend.  In that itself are you most strong.  Content yourself to be weak and helpless for a time.  Not even that brute, that assassin, that criminal, dare offend you now, Madame.  But ­of course he is impossible for one like madame; yet I have delight to hear even a brute, an assassin, make such love! Ah, mon Dieu!”

Jeanne pursed a lip impartially. “Mon Dieu!  And he was repressed, by reason of my presence.  He was restrained, none the less, by this raiment here of another, so mysterious.  Ah, if he ­”

“Tais-toi donc, Jeanne!” exclaimed her mistress.  “No more!  We shall stay until to-morrow, at least.”

And so the day passed.  The sleepy life of the old plantation went on about them in silence.  As a wild animal pursued, oppressed, but for the time left alone in some hiding-place, gains greater courage with each moment of freedom from pursuit, so Josephine St. Auban gained a groundless hope with the passing of the hours.  Even the long night at length rolled away.  Jeanne slept in her mistress’ room.  Nothing occurred to disturb their rest.

It was evening of the second day, and the shadows again were lying long across the valley, when there came slowly filing into view along the turn of the road the band of returning riders.  At their head was the tall form of Dunwody, the others following, straggling, drooping in their saddles as though from long hours of exertion.  The cavalcade slowly approached and drew up at the front door.  As they dismounted the faces of all showed haggard, worn and stern.

“There has been combat, Madame!” whispered Jeanne.  “See, he has been hurt.  Look ­those others!”

Dunwody got out of his saddle with difficulty.  He limped as he stood now.  A slender man near him got down unaided, a tall German-looking man followed suit.  The group broke apart and showed a girl, riding, bound.  Some one undid the bonds and helped her to the ground.

All of these things were apparent from the vantage ground of the upper story window, but Josephine, unwilling to play at spying, saw none of it.  At last, however, an exclamation from Jeanne caused her to hasten to the window. “Mon Dieu, Madame!  Madame, look ­it is that officer ­it is Monsieur lé Capitaine Carlisle!  Look! why then ­”

With no more than a glance, her mistress turned, flung open the door of the room, hurried down the stair, passed out of the hall and so fronted these newcomers at the gallery.  They stood silent as they saw her.  She herself was first to speak.

“What are you doing with that woman?” she demanded.

They all stood in silence, looking at her, at this apparition of a woman ­a young and beautiful woman ­here at Tallwoods, where none had known of any woman these many years.  Clayton himself made no comment.  The Honorable William Jones smiled broadly.  Dunwody removed his hat.  “Gentlemen,” said he, “this is the Countess St. Auban, who has come to see these parts of our country.  Madam,” he added, “this is Judge Clayton.  He was on the Mount Vernon with us.  Lieutenant Kammerer, I think, is the name of this gentleman who came down here to teach us a few things.  There has been some fighting.  Mr. Yates ­Mr. Jones.  And this gentleman” ­he stepped back so that Carlisle might come into view ­“I think you already know.”

“I knowed it!  I knowed it!” broke in the Honorable William Jones.  “I seen all along there was a woman in this house.  I said ­”

Josephine turned to him a swift glance.  “There is a lady in this house.”

“Yes,” broke out Carlisle, “and all of you remember it.  Don’t I know!  Madam, what are you doing here?”

“Kind words from my former jailer?  So!” She rewarded him none too much for his quick sympathy.  Then, relenting; “But at least you were better than this new jailer.  Are you, too, a prisoner?  I can’t understand all this.”

“But you’re hurt.  Madam,” began Carlisle.  “How is that?  Have you also been attacked by these ruffians?  I did not dream Dunwody was actually so much a ruffian.”

“Madam,” said Dunwody slowly turning to her, “I can’t exchange words now.  There has been an encounter, as I said.  There have been men killed, and some of us have been hurt.  The northern abolitionists have made their first attack on southern soil.  This gentleman is an army officer.  I’m a United States marshal, and as a prisoner he’s safe in talking.  He has come here on his own moral initiative, in the interest of what you call freedom.  You two should be friends once more.  But would you mind helping me make these people comfortable as we can?”

“You are hurt, yourself, then!” she said, turning toward him, seeing him wince as he started up the step.

“No;” he said curtly, “it’s nothing.”

“That girl yonder ­ah! she has been whipped!  My God in Heaven.  What is to be next, in this wilderness!  Is there indeed here no law, no justice?”

The deep voice of the German, Kammerer, broke in.  “Thank God in Heaven, at least you are a woman!” he said, turning to her.

“A woman!  Why thank God for that?  Here, at least, a woman’s sole privilege is insult and abuse.”

The others heard but did not all understand her taunt.  Tears sprang to the eyes of young Carlisle.  “Don’t talk so!” was all he could exclaim, feeling himself not wholly innocent of reproach.  Dunwody’s face flushed a deep red.  He made no answer except to call aloud for the old house servant, Sally, who presently appeared.

“Madam,” said Dunwody, in a low voice, limping forward toward Josephine, “you and I must declare some sort of truce.  The world has all gone helter-skelter.  What’ll become of us I don’t know; but we need a woman here now.”

She gazed at him steadily, but made no reply.  Growling, he turned away and limped up the steps, beckoning the others to follow into the hall.

They entered, awkward, silent, and stood about, none knowing what was best to do.  Dunwody, luckless and unhappy as he was, still remembered something of his place as host, and would have led them, friends and enemies, into the dining-room beyond in search of some refreshment.  He limped forward, without any support.  In the door between the hall and the farther room there lay a mounted rug, of a bear skin.  He tripped at its edge and fell, catching vainly at the door.  A sharp exclamation escaped him.  He did not at once rise.  It was the arm of his prisoner, Carlisle, who aided him.  “You are hurt, sir.”

“No, no, go away!” exclaimed Dunwody, as he struggled to his feet.

“One bone’s gone,” he said presently in a low tone to Clayton.  “I broke it when I fell that time.”

A curious moment of doubt and indecision was at hand.  The men, captors and captives, looked blankly at one another.  It was the mind of a woman which first rose to this occasion.  In an instant Josephine, with a sudden exclamation, flung aside indecision.

“Jeanne’ Sally!” she called.  “Show these gentlemen to their rooms,” naming Clayton and Jones.  “Sir,” she said to Dunwody, whose injury she did not guess to be so severe, “you must lie down.  Gentlemen, pass into the other room, there, if you please.”  She motioned to the two prisoners, and stepped to Dunwody’s side.

“I can’t have this,” he broke out suddenly.  “You’re hurt, yourself.  Go to your room.  I tell you, it’s nothing.”

“Be quiet,” she said, close at his ear.  “I’m not afraid of you now.”