It had been the father's way at such times to halt, to bend forward with outstretched arms, almost as he had done in Jimmy's earliest toddling baby boyhood, but he never halted now. Erect and stern he moved straight on. It was the boy who suddenly faltered, whose fond, happy, radiant face grew suddenly white and seemed to cloud with dread, whose eager bounding ceased as he neared his sire, and, though the hands as of old went forth to clasp the hand that never yet had failed them, for the first time in his glad young life Jimmy Dwight looked in vain for the love and welcome that had ever been his, for the first time his brave young heart well-nigh ceased its beating, for the first time he seemed to shrink from his father's gaze.
And in fear, too, but not for himself; oh, never for himself! Vaguely, strangely, of late he had begun to feel that all was not well with the father he so loved, and now the look in his father's face was terrible. "Oh, daddy!" he cried, a great sob welling up in his throat, but the answering word checked him instantly, checked his anxious query, turned his dread at the instant into relief, almost into joy. It was not then that his father was ill and stricken. It was that he was angry--angry, and at him, and in the flash of a second, in that one hoarse word--"Home!" he knew what it must be, and though his lips quivered and his eyes filled and again the sobs came surging from his breast, just as of old, all confidence that his word could not be questioned, he strove to find his father's hand, even as homeward now, with Inez and her hellcat of a handmaid peeping trembling through the slats, the father striding, the little fellow fairly running before, the two went hurrying on, and Jimmy, looking back, found tongue, and his one thought found words:
"Oh, daddy, indeed I wasn't--impudent to Captain Foster--to mamma, at least, I didn't mean it! They _were_ there in the parlor when I ran in from church, and he wanted me to promise----"
And then Marion Ray, far down the line, with one cry for Sandy, sprang forward to the gate, for Oswald Dwight, with heavy hand, had struck his little son across the face and stretched him on the turf.
There was no one near enough to reach them at the moment. Jimmy was on his feet again in an instant, dazed, half-stunned, breathless, but still unbelieving. Father could not have heard. Father would surely hear; but now the father's hand had seized his arm, and, when the boy again began to gasp his plea, it was almost dragging him across the _acequia_. Blood was beginning to trickle from the corner of the piteous little mouth. There was foam upon the set and livid lips of the man. "Silence! You've lied enough!" was the savage order, as Dwight thrust the boy through the gate. "Not there, sir!" as Jimmy, dumbly striving to show his loyalty, his obedience, his unshaken trust, would have run on up the steps. "To the cellar!" and in fury he pointed to the walk that circled the house, and Jimmy hurried on. They had vanished from sight as Marion Ray, with terror in her eyes, came almost running up the row, Priscilla and Mrs. Thornton staring, speechless and miserable, after her. A lone trooper, an humble private soldier, riding in from the westward gate, had sprung from saddle, thrown the reins over a post and, with consternation in his face, had started after them. It was young Hogan, faithful henchman of the Rays, still borne on the rolls of Ray's old squadron. They were in the cellar, under the rear of the quarters, when he reached them, and Jimmy's jacket was lying on the floor, while the lad, with streaming, pleading eyes, was looking up in his father's face.