Very much. The realization that I'm to be executed was too much

for her."

The group in blue shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed and

after several clearings of throats, they tramped out. The young

captain paused in the doorway.

"If there's anything more I can do--"

"No, thank you."

He went out, closing the door behind him.

"Drink some more," said Rhett.

"No."

"Drink it."

She swallowed another mouthful and the warmth began spreading

through her body and strength flowed slowly back into her shaking

legs. She pushed away the glass and tried to rise but he pressed

her back.

"Take your hands off me. I'm going."

"Not yet. Wait a minute. You might faint again."

"I'd rather faint in the road than be here with you."

"Just the same, I won't have you fainting in the road."

"Let me go. I hate you."

A faint smile came back to his face at her words.

"That sounds more like you. You must be feeling better."

She lay relaxed for a moment, trying to summon anger to her aid,

trying to draw on her strength. But she was too tired. She was

too tired to hate or to care very much about anything. Defeat lay

on her spirit like lead. She had gambled everything and lost

everything. Not even pride was left. This was the dead end of her

last hope. This was the end of Tara, the end of them all. For a

long time she lay back with her eyes closed, hearing his heavy

breathing near her, and the glow of the brandy crept gradually over

her, giving a false strength and warmth. When finally she opened

her eyes and looked him in the face, anger had roused again. As

her slanting eyebrows rushed down together in a frown Rhett's old

smile came back.

"Now you are better. I can tell it by your scowl."

"Of course, I'm all right. Rhett Butler, you are hateful, a skunk,

if ever I saw one! You knew very well what I was going to say as

soon as I started talking and you knew you weren't going to give me

the money. And yet you let me go right on. You could have spared

me--"

"Spared you and missed hearing all that? Not much. I have so few

diversions here. I don't know when I've ever heard anything so

gratifying." He laughed his sudden mocking laugh. At the sound

she leaped to her feet, snatching up her bonnet.

He suddenly had her by the shoulders.

"Not quite yet. Do you feel well enough to talk sense?"

"Let me go!"

"You are well enough, I see. Then, tell me this. Was I the only

iron you had in the fire?" His eyes were keen and alert, watching

every change in her face.

"What do you mean?"

"Was I the only man you were going to try this on?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"More than you realize. Are there any other men on your string?

Tell me!"

"No."

"Incredible. I can't imagine you without five or six in reserve.

Surely someone will turn up to accept your interesting proposition.

I feel so sure of it that I want to give you a little advice."

"I don't want your advice."

"Nevertheless I will give it. Advice seems to be the only thing I

can give you at present. Listen to it, for it's good advice. When

you are trying to get something out of a man, don't blurt it out as

you did to me. Do try to be more subtle, more seductive. It gets

better results. You used to know how, to perfection. But just now

when you offered me your--er--collateral for my money you looked as

hard as nails. I've seen eyes like yours above a dueling pistol

twenty paces from me and they aren't a pleasant sight. They evoke

no ardor in the male breast. That's no way to handle men, my dear.

You are forgetting your early training."

"I don't need you to tell me how to behave," she said and wearily

put on her bonnet. She wondered how he could jest so blithely with

a rope about his neck and her pitiful circumstances before him.

She did not even notice that his hands were jammed in his pockets

in hard fists as if he were straining at his own impotence.

"Cheer up," he said, as she tied the bonnet strings. "You can come

to my hanging and it will make you feel lots better. It'll even up

all your old scores with me--even this one. And I'll mention you

in my will."

"Thank you, but they may not hang you till it's too late to pay the

taxes," she said with a sudden malice that matched his own, and she

meant it.

CHAPTER XXXV

It was raining when she came out of the building and the sky was a

dull putty color. The soldiers on the square had taken shelter in

their huts and the streets were deserted. There was no vehicle in

sight and she knew she would have to walk the long way home.

The brandy glow faded as she trudged along. The cold wind made her

shiver and the chilly needle-like drops drove hard into her face.

The rain quickly penetrated Aunt Pitty's thin cloak until it hung

in clammy folds about her. She knew the velvet dress was being

ruined and as for the tail feathers on the bonnet, they were as

drooping and draggled as when their former owner had worn them

about the wet barn yard of Tara. The bricks of the sidewalk were

broken and, for long stretches, completely gone. In these spots

the mud was ankle deep and her slippers stuck in it as if it were

glue, even coming completely off her feet. Every time she bent

over to retrieve them, the hem of the dress fell in the mud. She

did not even try to avoid puddles but stepped dully into them,

dragging her heavy skirts after her. She could feel her wet

petticoat and pantalets cold about her ankles, but she was beyond

caring about the wreck of the costume on which she had gambled so

much. She was chilled and disheartened and desperate.

How could she ever go back to Tara and face them after her brave

words? How could she tell them they must all go--somewhere? How

could she leave it all, the red fields, the tall pines, the dark

swampy bottom lands, the quiet burying ground where Ellen lay in

the cedars' deep shade?

Hatred of Rhett burned in her heart as she plodded along the

slippery way. What a blackguard he was! She hoped they did hang

him, so she would never have to face him again with his knowledge

of her disgrace and her humiliation. Of course, he could have

gotten the money for her if he'd wanted to get it. Oh, hanging was

too good for him! Thank God, he couldn't see her now, with her

clothes soaking wet and her hair straggling and her teeth

chattering. How hideous she must look and how he would laugh!

The negroes she passed turned insolent grins at her and laughed

among themselves as she hurried by, slipping and sliding in the

mud, stopping, panting to replace her slippers. How dared they

laugh, the black apes! How dared they grin at her, Scarlett O'Hara

of Tara! She'd like to have them all whipped until the blood ran

down their backs. What devils the Yankees were to set them free,

free to jeer at white people!

As she walked down Washington Street, the landscape was as dreary

as her own heart. Here there was none of the bustle and

cheerfulness which she had noted on Peachtree Street. Here many

handsome homes had once stood, but few of them had been rebuilt.

Smoked foundations and the lonesone blackened chimneys, now known

as "Sherman's Sentinels," appeared with disheartening frequency.

Overgrown paths led to what had been houses--old lawns thick with

dead weeds, carriage blocks bearing names she knew so well,

hitching posts which would never again know the knot of reins.

Cold wind and rain, mud and bare trees, silence and desolation.

How wet her feet were and how long the journey home!

She heard the splash of hooves behind her and moved farther over on

the narrow sidewalk to avoid more mud splotches on Aunt Pittypat's

cloak. A horse and buggy came slowly up the road and she turned to

watch it, determined to beg a ride if the driver was a white

person. The rain obscured her vision as the buggy came abreast,

but she saw the driver peer over the tarpaulin that stretched from

the dashboard to his chin. There was something familiar about his

face and as she stepped out into the road to get a closer view,

there was an embarrassed little cough from the man and a well-known