was closed by another band, marching steadily, shoulder to
shoulder. We went on--there seemed no other way to go--and
presently found ourselves quite surrounded by this close-massed
multitude, women, all of them, but--

They were not young. They were not old. They were not, in
the girl sense, beautiful. They were not in the least ferocious.
And yet, as I looked from face to face, calm, grave, wise, wholly
unafraid, evidently assured and determined, I had the funniest
feeling--a very early feeling--a feeling that I traced back and
back in memory until I caught up with it at last. It was that sense
of being hopelessly in the wrong that I had so often felt in early
youth when my short legs' utmost effort failed to overcome the
fact that I was late to school.

Jeff felt it too; I could see he did. We felt like small boys, very
small boys, caught doing mischief in some gracious lady's house.
But Terry showed no such consciousness. I saw his quick eyes
darting here and there, estimating numbers, measuring distances,
judging chances of escape. He examined the close ranks about us,
reaching back far on every side, and murmured softly to me,
"Every one of 'em over forty as I'm a sinner."

Yet they were not old women. Each was in the full bloom of rosy
health, erect, serene, standing sure-footed and light as any pugilist.
They had no weapons, and we had, but we had no wish to shoot.

"I'd as soon shoot my aunts," muttered Terry again. "What
do they want with us anyhow? They seem to mean business."
But in spite of that businesslike aspect, he determined to try his