Above the Big Hill the last ember of day smoldered against a
green-blue infinity. Here and there a star pricked the dome with a
wintry brilliance.
Then, somehow, the thought of Cissie looking out on that chilly sky
through iron bars tightened Peter's throat. He caught himself up sharply
for his emotion. He began a vague defense of the white man's laws on
grounds as cold and impersonal as the winter evening. Laws, customs, and
conventions were for the strengthening of men, to seed the select, to
winnow the weak. It was white logic, applied firmly, as by a white man.
But somehow the stars multiplied and kept Cissie's image before Peter--a
cold, frightened girl, harassed with coming motherhood, peering at those
chill, distant lights out of the blackness of a jail.
The mulatto decided to spend the night in his mother's cabin. He would
do his packing, and be ready for the down-river boat in the morning. He
found his way to his own gate in the darkness. He lifted it around,
entered, and walked to his door. When he tried to open it, he found some
one had bored holes through the shutter and the jamb and had wired it
shut.
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