It was past noon when Belinda left the raft, carrying a large basket containing her husband’s clothes and such other articles as there might be pressing need of for him or herself. She hoped to make arrangements for storing their goods in some safe place, and to return in the course of the afternoon with a conveyance for them, and some one to assist in their removal.

She had not gone far when she met a farmer driving leisurely along the road.

“Good-day,” he called to her. “If I was goin’ your way I’d give ye a lift; that basket looks heavy; but I’m comin’ from the town and you a goin’ toward it. Good deal of excitement there to-day. Did ye hear the news?”

“What news?” she asked, her heart leaping into her mouth.

“Why, that they’ve nabbed the murderer; leastways, the scoundrel that attackted that old man on the raft and left him fer dead. They’ve took him to Prairieville to the jail. He’d ought to be strung right up, I say; fer I’ve not the least doubt that he’s at the head o’ the gang o’ burglars that’s been robbin’ here and there till nobody in this whole region of country knows when he and his family and goods is safe.”

He had reined in his horses, and she had set down her basket for a moment’s rest while listening to what he had to say.

“But don’t you think everybody’d ought to have a fair trial?” she asked, with some hesitation.

“That’s so, when there’s any doubt o’ their guilt and any chance o’ their gettin’ their deserts; which, howsomever, there ain’t in this instance, seein’ that the law’s so that they can’t nohow mete out to the murderers the measure they’ve meted to their victims; and that ain’t accordin’ to Scriptur’, nohow you kin fix it,” he said, flecking a fly off his horse’s back with the lash of his whip. “There’s some folks that talk as if ’twas worse than hangin’ to be shut up in State’s prison fer life,” he went on, “but I always notice that them that’s in favor of the criminal is pretty generally o’ the opinion that they’ve gained a good deal fer him when they get a death sentence commuted to that; because, you see, there’s always a chance o’ some governor that wants to secure the votes o’ that class pard’nin’ him out.”

“Yes; but it’s an awful thing to put a man to death, because if you find out afterward that he was innocent, you can’t make it up to him nohow at all,” she said, taking up her basket; and with a parting nod she went on her way.

On entering the town, she at once perceived evidences of unusual excitement among the inhabitants: men were grouped together on the sidewalks and about the store doors, neighbor-women talking across fences or leaning out of windows, discussing the all-absorbing topic of the robbery and attempted murder of old Farmer Himes, and the arrest of the supposed leader of the gang of burglars who had been for months past the terror of Wild River Valley.

Occasionally Belinda heard her own name coupled with the remark that the old man believed her to be in league with his would-be assassins, the speaker or the one addressed sometimes adding that she, too, ought to be arrested and put in prison for trial.

She hurried on her way, growing more and more frightened at every step, till by the time she had gained the door of the tavern whither her husband had been conveyed she was ready to drop with fatigue and alarm.

And the reception she met with there was not calculated to reassure her; evidently every one regarded her with suspicion; and the landlord, on learning who she was, coldly informed her that he had no room for her; she would have to find accommodation elsewhere.

“Didn’t they bring my husband here? and isn’t he a lyin’ now in one o’ them bedrooms o’ yours?” she asked, trying to put on a bold, defiant air.

“Yes; but what of that?”

“Why, I’ve come to nurse him; and of course I’ll share his room; so you needn’t tell me you haven’t got one for me.”

“Not so fast, woman,” returned Mr. Strong. “The old man says you have more love for O’Rourke than for him—in fact, he accuses you of betraying him into the hands of his would-be assassins, and swears that he will henceforward have nothing whatever to do with you—neither let you nurse him nor pay any bills of your contracting. So, as I don’t board folks for nothing, there’s no place for you here.”

She was opening her lips to offer her services as cook or chambermaid, when a thought of the danger of arrest on suspicion of having been accessory to the attempt on her husband’s life caused a sudden abandonment of that idea.

“It’s a lie!” she cried, with a show of great indignation, “a wicked lie that I had anything to do with them robbers tryin’ to git a holt o’ his money and kill him. If it hadn’t been fer me a runnin’ with all my might fer help, he’d been a dead man hours ago, a bleedin’ there on the raft, without a soul to do nothin’ fer him. But I’ll go and leave the ongrateful old idyot to git along the best he kin without me.”

She stooped, and taking a small parcel from the basket which she had set down on the floor beside her, “These is my clo’es; t’others is hisn,” she said, and without so much as a parting salutation stalked into the street and away faster than she had come, anger and the fear of pursuit lending her strength.

She returned to the raft, but by a roundabout way, with the design of throwing any possible pursuer off the scent. She reached it well-nigh spent with exertion and the agitation of mind she had undergone for so many hours; indeed, for many days and weeks she had been ill at ease, torn by conflicting emotions—hatred of the man who tyrannized over her, reproached by conscience for that and the guilty love indulged for O’Rourke, tempted to abet him in his intended crime, yet at times filled with horror at thought of the awful deed, and terror of the more than possible consequences to him and herself.

Standing on the grassy bank below which the raft was moored, she sent a hasty, searching glance around. There was neither sight nor sound of pursuit, and leaping on board, she threw herself down on its floor and lay there for some minutes, panting and trembling.

What should she do? where fly for refuge? there was no safety here; people would presently be flocking to look upon the scene of the attempted murder; she thought, as she lifted her head and glanced about, that she perceived evidences that some had already been there; doubtless news of Phelim’s arrest had called them in another direction, but surely they would soon return, bringing others with them.

Some, if not all, believing the old man’s story, would hoot and jeer at her, perhaps offer her personal violence—throw her into the river, drag her ashore, and, maybe, hang her to the nearest tree; she had heard of such things, had read in the newspapers of suspected criminals being lynched by furious mobs, who utterly refused to listen to their protestations of innocence.

It behooved her to fly instantly; but, ah! whither could she go? She had neither relative nor friend. Phelim’s parents detested her on account of her marriage to Himes; his associates would be very likely to make away with her, should the chance offer, lest she should become a witness against them. She had not been long in the neighborhood when hired by Himes, and had always lived a lonely life on the farm.

Despair was taking possession of her when there came to her recollection the fact that Phelim had told her of a little cave in the rocky bank of the river only a short distance higher up the stream than she now was.

He believed its existence to be known only to himself, and had given her a very particular description of its location, remarking that she might have occasion to conceal herself there in case suspicion should arise of her complicity in his crime, or her presence be required as a witness against him in court, should he be caught and brought to trial.

She had a horror of caves—their dampness and darkness, and the possibility of reptiles and wild beasts harboring there—but such a hiding-place seemed her last hope in this hour of fear and peril. She remembered its existence with a thrill of something akin to joy, and wondering that she could have forgotten it for even a moment, rose, gathered together a few necessaries—some food, candles, a box of matches, a few articles of clothing, and a blanket to lie upon—and set out at once in search of the spot.

So well had Phelim described it that she found it with but little difficulty, though the entrance was concealed from view by a thick growth of bushes and creeping vines. It could be reached only by a very steep climb up the almost perpendicular face of the high, rocky bank.

Her first ascent was made slowly and with much toil and fear of falling, and when at last she had gained the rocky ledge in front of the opening, pushed aside the overhanging vines, and looked within, nothing but the blackness of darkness met her gaze, and she shrank back with a shudder, in terror of all kinds of venomous and savage creatures.

But quickly she nerved herself to enter, struck a match, lighted a candle, and sent a searching glance around from side to side and up overhead. It was a small, irregularly shaped room, the ceiling barely high enough to enable her to stand upright in it, the walls of solid rock showing no crevice wherein beast or even snake could hide.

She drew a long breath of relief, stuck her candle in a little niche in the wall, climbed down again to the base of the cliff, and gathering up the articles she had brought, made the ascent a second time, and deposited them in the cave.

She was compelled to refresh herself with rest and food before she could attempt any further exertion; it was near sundown when she again ventured to the vicinity of the raft, approaching with great caution till, from the shelter of a clump of bushes, she could obtain a view of it.

She had already heard the sound of human voices coming from that direction, so was not surprised, though very much disturbed, at sight of a crowd of men and boys, with here and there a woman or girl, upon it and the adjacent bank.

They seemed to be making free with whatever was to be found on board, and with a sigh and a muttered, “There won’t be nothin’ left o’ our goods and things; they’ll carry ’em all off or break ’em up; and oh, my, but won’t Himes be mad!” She dropped down upon the grass behind the bushes, and there waited and watched for their departure.

But the last did not leave till the glow of the sunset had quite faded from the sky, and night’s sable pall was slowly settling down over the earth. It was already too dark to board the raft with safety; almost too dark to make her way back to the cavern; but moving slowly and with extreme caution she accomplished the task.

She passed a most uncomfortable night; the blanket spread upon the rock made but a hard bed; the air of the cave was damp, close, and stifling; a guilty conscience, remorse, and terror were but poor bedfellows.

The hours dragged wearily along, seeming as if they would never end; again and again she pushed aside the overhanging vines and peered out to see if the dawn had not come; and with the first streak of light in the east she crept from her hiding-place and back to the raft.

She found it stripped of everything valuable. In fact, a part of the crowd she had seen there the previous afternoon were men sent by Mr. Himes to remove his goods and chattels to a place of safety.

Thus she was cut off from the supplies she had hoped to secure, and starvation would soon be staring her in the face if she remained in hiding, while to leave her retreat seemed too perilous a move to be contemplated for a moment. Yet loathing and dreading its darkness and closeness, she lingered where she was till the sun grew hot and she thought she descried in the distance a man approaching from the direction of the town. That sight sent her hurrying back to her poor refuge in a panic of fear.