His protests had been unheeded. The old man had not even
granted him an interview in private, where he could plead his own case.
In business matters they had been co-workers, intimate on the level of
partnership, with the grandfather asking for and obeying the suggestions
the grandson made. On a sudden Harlan felt that he hardly knew this old
man, who had shown himself contemptuous, harsh, and domineering. And
then he thought of the girl who had been so grievously insulted in his
presence, and he rode to find her.
His way took him across the long bridge that spanned the river. The
river marked the boundary-line of his country. After that day's taste of
the politics of his native land he felt a queer sense of relief when he
found himself on foreign soil.
Beyond the little church and its burying-ground, with the tall cross in
its centre, the road led up the river hill to the edge of the forest.
Here was set Dennis Kavanagh's house, its back to the black growth,
staring sullenly with its little windows out across the cleared farms of
the river valley.
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