never saw anything else like it. On the hearth stood the pot and skillet,
still half full of hominy and meat.

Kneeling by the fire was a young man molding bullets and passing them to
his father, seated on a stool at a corner of the chimney, who threw them
into a jar of water, taking them out again to even them with the handle of
a knife. I see it still as if it was before my eyes.

The woman opened her eyes, but did not stir. The dogs rose tumultuously,
but Tom showed his teeth and growled, and they went back under the table.
The young man rose upon one knee, he and his father gazing stupidly at us,
the firelight in their faces. We women shrank against our protectors,
except Maggie, who let go a strong oath. The younger man was frightfully
ugly; pale-faced, large-eyed, haggard, his long, tangled, blonde hair on
his shoulders. The father's face was written all over with depravity and
crime. Joseph advanced and spoke to him.

"What the devil of a language is that?" he asked of his son in English.

"He is asking you," said Maggie, "to let us stay here till the storm is
over."

"And where do you come from this way?"

"From that flatboat tied to the bank."

"Well, the house isn't big nor pretty, but you are its masters."

Maggie went and sat by the window, ready to give the signal. Pat sank at
her feet, and laying his head upon Tom went straight to sleep. Papa sat