" "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. " "Iss, Massa Ireton," replied the black. There it is. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. I'll tote it myself. He gave you a poison. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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