“Shut up, Anson,” somebody said.

Dan told them, “He’s not young. His son is in the army.” There was silence, then a grumble which might be assent. “Just as you say, brother. But you better station that darkey here to warn the rest of the boys. They won’t know about it, less you tell ’em.” Their voices dulled down; they worked the crank slowly, and its squeal was more evident than before. Dan went back into the house. “I will stay here,” he said defiantly to Mrs. Fanning.

The girl sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair, the western windows behind her, the sun skewering through wistaria vines that darkened this room. The level light made brass of her hair, and painted the outline of her soft neck; she wore a gown of Spanish linen, and it did not become her as well as most of her dresses.

“Very well,” she said. “Very well.”

No one in the room … he bent over her, lifting her icy hands. “You don’t want me to stay—”

“You know that. Not—here.”

“I have to be with you. There is something ominous about this military business. I have a strange horror—”

Her gaze searched his face, firmly, steadily. “Yes. That thought … I’ve had it ever since they first rode past.” Her shoulders moved under their tight linen sheathing. “Do you think there’ll be a—fight?”

“There’s no one here for them to fight; doubtless they will move on, by tomorrow. But there are three thousand men at least, scattered over this mile or two. As long as Mr. Fanning is ill, I want to be close at hand.” He paused for a moment, but she said nothing. “Under any circumstances—even if I scarcely knew you, it would be the thing to do. No one would wish to bother Mrs. Knouse!”

This was a house of ugly enchantment. Its walls stood ready to mute any common thought or speech between the woman and Dan. (Tyler lived here: he was a baby, crawling over these floors. He toyed with his blocks and baa-lamb in this hallway; here he was punished and fondled, long before any sin ever existed between us, before we ever came together.) I tell you, Dan wanted to cry, events are surely sapping the life and pungency from us. The world will not leave us alone. Oh, I should have taken you away last Friday night, no matter what roads were cut by the Confederates—

Mrs. Fanning came groaning downstairs. Father was a poor, sick man. She could not understand why the cavalry had felt it necessary to stop in Gettysburg; they should have gone on west or north or wherever they intended to go. Let them be chasing rebels, that was what the State demanded. If honey boy were here he would send them packing out of the yard. And Daniel, you go out and see that they aren’t stealing our wood.