If I cried out, or made any alarm, I was afraid he would fire.

My father was standing unconsciously, his back toward him, unarmed.

I cannot tell you how frightened I was, for, somehow, the man did not seem real; I--I felt as I have sometimes in dreams.

But I had to do something, something desperate.

There was an old gun standing back of the door--just a relic, and unloaded.