"Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. " "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. It still failed in something.
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