"There ain't no call to be skittish.We're married, you know."She wrenched herself free.He seized her again."What's the use of puttin' on? I know all about you.You little no-name," he cursed, when her teeth sank into his hand.For an instant, at that reminder of her degradation, her indelible shame that made her of the low and the vile, she collapsed in weakness.Then with new and fierce strength she fought again.When she had exhausted herself utterly she relaxed, fell to sobbing and moaning, feebly trying to shelter her face from his gluttonous and odorous kisses.And upon the scene the moon shone in all that beauty which from time immemorial has filled the hearts of lovers with ecstasy and of devotees with prayer.
They lay quietly side by side; he fell into a profound sleep.He was full upon his back, his broad chest heaving in the gray cotton undershirt, his mouth wide open with its upper fringe of hair in disarray and agitated by his breath.Soon he began to snore, a deafening clamor that set some loose object in the dark part of the room to vibrating with a tapping sound.Susan stealthily raised herself upon her elbow, looked at him.There was neither horror nor fear in her haggard face but only eagerness to be sure he would not awaken.She, inch by inch, more softly than a cat, climbed over the low footboard, was standing on the floor.One silent step at a time, with eyes never from his face so clear in the moonlight, she made her way toward the door.The snoring stopped--and her heart stopped with it.He gasped, gurgled, gave a snort, and sat up.
"What--which----" he ejaculated.Then he saw her near the door.
"Hello--whar ye goin'?"
"I thought I'd undress," she lied, calmly and smoothly.
"Oh--that's right." And he lay down.
She stood in the darkness, making now and then a faint sound suggestive of undressing.The snoring began again--soft, then deep, then the steady, uproarious intake with the fierce whistling exhalation.She went into the sitting-room, felt round in the darkness, swift and noiseless.On the sofa she found her bundle, tore it open.By feeling alone she snatched her sailor hat, a few handkerchiefs, two stockings, a collar her fingers chanced upon and a toothbrush.She darted to the front door, was outside, was gliding down the path, out through the gate into the road.
To the left would be the way she had come.She ran to the right, with never a backward glance--ran with all the speed in her lithe young body, ran with all the energy of her fear and horror and resolve to die rather than be taken.For a few hundred yards the road lay between open fields.But after that it entered a wood.And in that dimness she felt the first beginnings of a sense of freedom.Half a mile and open fields again, with a small house on the right, a road southeastward on the left.That would be away from her Uncle Zeke's and also away from Sutherland, which lay twenty miles to the southwest.When she would be followed Jeb would not think of this direction until he had exhausted the other two.
She walked, she ran, she rested; she walked and ran and walked again.The moon ascended to the zenith, crossed the levels of the upper sky, went down in the west; a long bar of dusky gray outlined a cloud low upon the horizon in the northeast.She was on the verge of collapse.Her skin, the inside of her mouth, were hot and dry.She had to walk along at snail's pace or her heart would begin to beat as if it were about to burst and the blood would choke up into the veins of her throat to suffocate her.A terrible pain came in her side--came and went--came and stayed.She had passed turning after turning, to the right, to the left--crossroads leading away in all directions.She had kept to the main road because she did not wish to lose time, perhaps return upon her path, in the confusion of the darkness.
Now she began to look about her at the country.It was still the hills as round Zeke Warham's--the hills of southeastern Indiana.
But they were steeper and higher, for she was moving toward the river.There was less open ground, more and denser undergrowth and forest.She felt that she was in a wilderness, was safe.
Night still lay too thick upon the landscape for her to distinguish anything but outlines.She sat down on the ruined and crumbling panel of a zigzag fence to rest and to wait for light.She listened; a profound hush.She was alone, all alone.
How far had she come? She could not guess; but she knew that she had done well.She would have been amazed if she had known how well.All the years of her life, thanks to Mrs.Warham's good sense about health, she had been steadily adding to the vitality and strength that were hers by inheritance.Thus, the response to this first demand upon them had been almost inevitable.It augured well for the future, if the future should draw her into hardships.She knew she had gone far and in what was left of the night and with what was left of her strength she would put such a distance between her and them that they would never believe she had got so far, even should they seek in this direction.She was supporting her head upon her hands, her elbows upon her knees.Her eyes closed, her head nodded; she fought against the impulse, but she slept.
When she straightened up with a start it was broad day.The birds must have finished their morning song, for there was only happy, comfortable chirping in the branches above her.She rose stiffly.Her legs, her whole body, ached; and her feet were burning and blistered.But she struck out resolutely.
