"Judas Priest!" it said. D'ri stood in the doorway, hatless and
one boot missing--a sorry figure of a man.

"Hidin' over 'n th' woods yender," he went on as I took his hand.
"See thet air brown hoss go by. Knew 'im soon es I sot eyes on
'im--use' t' ride 'im myself. Hed an idee 't wus you 'n the
saddle--sot s' kind o' easy. But them air joemightyful do's!
Jerushy Jane! would n't be fit t' skin a skunk in them do's, would
it?"

"Got 'em off a scarecrow," I said.

"'Nough t' mek a painter ketch 'is breath, they wus."

The good woman bade him have a chair at the table, and brought more
food.

"Neck 's broke with hunger, 't is sartin," said he, as he began to
eat. "Hev t' light out o' here purty middlin' soon. 'T ain' no
safe place t' be. 'T won' never dew fer us t' be ketched."

We ate hurriedly, and when we had finished, the good woman gave us
each an outfit of apparel left by her dead husband. It was rather
snug for D'ri, and gave him an odd look. She went out of doors
while we were dressing. Suddenly she came back to the door.

"Go into the cellar," she whispered. "They are coming!"