And if what Butler said warn't true, then he's a spy and he is goin' to turn them up to the Yankees and they'll git kilt just the same.
And if he does turn them up, then I'll kill him, if it's the last deed of m' life.
And if they ain't kilt, then they'll all have to light out of here for Texas and lay low and maybe never come back.
It's all yore fault and thar's blood on yore hands."
Anger wiped out the fear from Melanie's face as she saw comprehension come slowly across Scarlett's face and then horror follow swiftly.
She rose and put her hand on Scarlett's shoulder.
"Another such word and you go out of this house, Archie," she said sternly.
"It's not her fault.
She only did--did what she felt she had to do.
And our men did what they felt they had to do.
People must do what they must do.
We don't all think alike or act alike and it's wrong to--to judge others by ourselves.
How can you and India say such cruel things when her husband as well as mine may be--may be--"
"Hark!" interrupted Archie softly.
"Set, Ma'm. Thar's horses."
Melanie sank into a chair, picked up one of Ashley's shirts and, bowing her head over it, unconsciously began to tear the frills into small ribbons.
The sound of hooves grew louder as horses trotted up to the house.
There was the jangling of bits and the strain of leather and the sound of voices.
As the hooves stopped in front of the house, one voice rose above the others in a command and the listeners heard feet going through the side yard toward the back porch.
They felt that a thousand inimical eyes looked at them through the unshaded front window and the four women, with fear in their hearts, bent their heads and plied their needles.
Scarlett's heart screamed in her breast:
"I've killed Ashley!
I've killed him!"
And in that wild moment she did not even think that she might have killed Frank too.
She had no room in her mind for any picture save that of Ashley, lying at the feet of Yankee cavalrymen, his fair hair dappled with blood.
As the harsh rapid knocking sounded at the door, she looked at Melanie and saw come over the small, strained face a new expression, an expression as blank as she had just seen on Rhett Butler's face, the bland blank look of a poker player bluffing a game with only two deuces.
"Archie, open the door," she said quietly.
Slipping his knife into his boot top and loosening the pistol in his trouser band, Archie stumped over to the door and flung it open.
Pitty gave a little squeak, like a mouse who feels the trap snap down, as she saw massed in the doorway, a Yankee captain and a squad of bluecoats.
But the others said nothing.
Scarlett saw with the faintest feeling of relief that she knew this officer.
He was Captain Tom Jaffery, one of Rhett's friends.
She had sold him lumber to build his house.
She knew him to be a gentleman.
Perhaps, as he was a gentleman, he wouldn't drag them away to prison.
He recognized her instantly and, taking off his hat, bowed, somewhat embarrassed.
"Good evening, Mrs. Kennedy.
And which of you ladies is Mrs. Wilkes?"
"I am Mrs. Wilkes," answered Melanie, rising and for all her smallness, dignity flowed from her.
"And to what do I owe this intrusion?"
The eyes of the captain flickered quickly about the room, resting for an instant on each face, passing quickly from their faces to the table and the hat rack as though looking for signs of male occupancy.
"I should like to speak to Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Kennedy, if you please."
"They are not here," said Melanie, a chill in her soft voice.
"Are you sure?"
"Don't you question Miz Wilkes' word," said Archie, his beard bristling.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wilkes.
I meant no disrespect.
If you give me your word, I will not search the house."
"You have my word. But search if you like.
They are at a meeting downtown at Mr. Kennedy's store."