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Chapter 37

           "Whatcanwedowithdevilswho’dhanganiceboylikeTonyjustforkillingadrunkenbuckandascoundrellyScallawagtoprotecthiswomenfolks?"

           "Itisn’ttobeborne!"Tonyhadcriedandhewasright.Itcouldn’tbeborne.Butwhatcouldtheydoexceptbearit,helplessastheywere?Shefelltotremblingand,forthefirsttimeinherlife,shesawpeopleandeventsassomethingapartfromherself,sawclearlythatScarlettO’Hara,frightenedandhelpless,wasnotallthatmattered.Therewerethousandsofwomenlikeher,allovertheSouth,whowerefrightenedandhelpless.Andthousandsofmen,whohadlaiddowntheirarmsatAppomattox,hadtakenthemupagainandstoodreadytorisktheirnecksonaminute’snoticetoprotectthosewomen.

           TherehadbeensomethinginTony’sfacewhichhadbeenmirroredinFrank’s,anexpressionshehadseenrecentlyonthefacesofothermeninAtlanta,alookshehadnoticedbuthadnottroubledtoanalyze.Itwasanexpressionvastlydifferentfromthetiredhelplessnessshehadseeninthefacesofmencominghomefromthewarafterthesurrender.Thosemenhadnotcaredaboutanythingexceptgettinghome.Nowtheywerecaringaboutsomethingagain,numbednerveswerecomingbacktolifeandtheoldspiritwasbeginningtoburn.Theywerecaringagainwithacoldruthlessbitterness.And,likeTony,theywerethinking:"Itisn’ttobeborne!"

           ShehadseenSouthernmen,softvoicedanddangerousinthedaysbeforethewar,recklessandhardinthelastdespairingdaysofthefighting.

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