when there has been established that sympathy between them which, if
not love, is involuntarily considered by each something that way.
There was a struggle in his mind between the instinct to be honorable
and straight-forward and fair, and to do what was right, and the
impulse, on the other hand, to refuse anything demanded by an
assailant. But the would-be murderer was not a murderer, after all.
He was only a temporary lunatic whom Harlson himself had driven mad.
That was the just way to look at it. As for Jenny, she would not
suffer much. There had not been time enough. Not in a day does a man
or woman have that effect produced upon the heart which lasts forever.
So, were he to disappear from the affair, nothing very serious, nothing
affecting materially the whole of any life would follow. The odds were
against him, or rather against the worst side of him, in the reflection.

He acted promptly. "I don't know about it," he said; "I'm puzzled. I
don't care much. I don't know just where I stand, anyhow. I want to
be decent, but it seems to me I have some rights; I'm all tangled up.
I don't think you imagine I am afraid--I wasn't when I was a little boy
in school with you as a bigger one. You know that--and I'm not now.
But that doesn't count. I've been studying over a lot of things, and I
don't know what to do. I think you may be right, and that I have been
all wrong. I give it up. But I do know that a fellow can't make any
mistake if he tries to do what is right, and, in figuring out the
thing, takes the side that seems to be against him. He can fight, he
can do anything better after he feels that he has done that. Hold on."

Woodell stopped, wonderingly. Harlson unbuckled the strap about the
man's hands and threw it into the bushes at the roadside.

The farmer straightened himself up, reached out his arms, clutched his