Front matter (continued 2)

The sun was half gone before the far horizon, the grove of magnolias had grown black in the dusk, and a multitude of birds were fluttering in the protecting foliage, whispering good-nights to each other. A delicious breeze swept up from the bosom of the river, cooling the parched earth, and bringing with it the promise of a refreshing evening.

Finally Everett rose from the bench. "So we should be very good friends, Natalia," he said as she walked beside him, still silent from her sympathetic listening, "for we are both without the one we love best in the world. Will you see now if Mistress Brandon has returned? It is growing late, and I must get back to town to-night."

In the distance the sound of the gate opening and the crunch of hoofs on the driveway made Sargent look toward the house. A woman on horseback was riding up to the door, followed by two men, who rode a little behind her.

"That's Mamma Brandon now," Natalia cried, "and her overseers. She's been going over the plantation with them, getting ready for the cotton picking." She walked a little ahead of Sargent, so that she reached Mrs. Brandon's side just as she dismounted on the block before the door.

"He's come," she cried breathlessly. "The schoolmaster! And I like him so much!"

Mrs. Brandon threw her reins to a negro, and looked quickly at Sargent as he came toward her.

"You are Mr. Everett," she said, extending her gloved hand. "Morgan wrote me that you would probably reach here this month. Will you come inside?"

She turned away and walked into the house, leaving Sargent, who followed closely, with an impression of a tall, fair woman, with steady, cold blue eyes and a determined mouth. In the first moment of greeting he had seen her utter lack of sympathy with the old house. In a flash the thought that had come to him in the garden, returned—the child was the rightful owner.

"If you will excuse me for a few minutes," she continued, when they were within the hall. "I have been overlooking the places this afternoon. After a month's absence it was quite necessary. Natalia, take Mr. Everett into the parlour. I shall be there in a few moments."

In the gloom of the interior of the house Sargent could distinguish very little until his eyes had grown accustomed to the subdued light.

The hall was spacious, with a brick floor over which were thrown squares of carpet, and on the walls, which were of the same cement as the exterior, hung a remarkable collection of portraits. Tier after tier they rose to the ceiling, all of them in massive gilt frames that glistened against the white walls and increased the effect of a ghostly multitude looking down upon the intruder.

Following Natalia into a large salon which opened into this hall, Sargent found himself in a vast room of mirrors, with furniture shrouded in linen covers and a polished mahogany floor that repeated all the furnishings.

When they were alone again, Natalia stood directly before Sargent, her face peering up at him through the misty light.

"I'm going to call James and Bushnell to meet you," she said, "and they're going to be so glad when I tell them you're not one bit like Mr. Jervais said you were." She smiled happily. "He said you were a regular old Yankee schoolmaster—and a crippled one at that! Oh!" she cried, seeing the quick flash of pain in Sargent's face—it was the thrust that always made him flinch—"I didn't mean to hurt you!" Her eyes darkened suddenly and the tears rushed down her checks. "Now you won't like me at all—I'm so—so sorry!" Then she ran weeping out of the room.

So it was that Sargent Everett's long journey from Maine to Mississippi in those old days came to an end. Sitting in his room that night at the tavern, writing home by the light of a single candle, he held his quill poised above the paper, while the faces of the day rushed in procession before him. The wrinkled, weather-beaten face of the steamboat captain; the kind, noble features of the Virginia gentleman; the calm, placid face of the chatelaine of the old Spanish home; and last of all, the haunting grey eyes of the little girl. In each of them he found something that made him realize they would help in the moulding of his future. His first step had been made. What would the unknown bring to him? His head sank on his arms and the words of the far away one rang in his ears, urging him on and on to success.

A light tap sounded on the door.

"Come in," he called out, and the shining face of Jonas appeared in the doorway.

"Boss, I jes' cum ter fin' out ef yer didn' want hit open'd now?"

"No, Jonas," Sargent smiled, glancing at the bottle of champagne placed conspicuously on the table. "I've decided to keep it as a souvenir of my first day in a new country—and of some one whose advice, I verily believe, saved the day!"

BOOK II

THE LAWYER

CHAPTER I

PICTURES IN THE FIRE

Spring had come, the joyous, impatient spring of the South, bringing in one day a new world, full of warmth and splendour. The old house of the Spaniards gleamed once more in the sunshine, long shafts of gold penetrated the shadows of the magnolias and rested with a dazzling brilliance upon the surrounding line of columns. And the garden along the terrace burst into a sudden glory that showed it knew well that the cold winds of the North had died away for many months.

Far down the hillside the great river crept stealthily out of its banks, crawling up and up until the lowlands of the opposite shore became a wide, yellow, seemingly boundless sea.

Then the seared forest began to tremble into a faint green, and everywhere were the chatter of birds and the sounds of awakening life. Weather prophets shook their heads, saying the spring had come too early, that it would mean a bad season for the crops; the plantation overseers were caught napping, and rushed hundreds of slaves into the field to make the ground ready for planting; and along the road toward the town three caravans of Voyageurs had passed already, on their way from New Orleans to St. Louis—all this in the early part of March.

The days, lengthening and full of a lazy warmth, were perfect for a short cessation from the routine of the schoolroom, so that when the young schoolmaster had asked for a week's leave in which he might ride to a day's distant village, for the purpose of passing his examinations before the Judges of the Supreme Court, his request was readily granted. The boys had received the announcement with childish delight. Natalia had said nothing.

The day after the schoolroom was closed, the little girl wandered far down the hillside, and watched the great river, turbulent and angry in its swollen channel. She sat there a long time, not thoroughly contented in the freedom of the holiday, for the last few weeks had been unhappy ones for her. The schoolmaster had been severe and impatient for many days, and he had not taken her with him on his long walks through the woods. Until lately it had been almost the daily custom to go directly after dinner along the crest of the hill quite away from the road, toward the town. Natalia would dance along beside him, flitting away now and then to inspect a hitherto undiscovered grapevine swing or a new birdnest, and then again walking slowly beside him, listening intently while he told her some wonderful story of bygone days. Sometimes when the story was very complicated and the words too big for her to grasp the meaning, she would walk close beside him, one hand in his, her eyes shut tight while she listened only to the music of his voice. Many days they would go quite into the town and stop at Judge Houston's for a half hour, and while Mrs. Houston gave them huge slices of jelly cake, and raisins, and tall goblets of milk, the Judge and the schoolmaster would discuss the new laws of the State. Then it was such fun to come back, in the late afternoon, when the wind was whistling through the trees and the grove about the house was filling with queer shadows, and find everybody gathered about the blazing logs for a while before the study hour.

But all this had ended a month before. The schoolmaster walked no more in the afternoons; he went directly from the dinner table to the library, and shut himself in, not coming out even when the supper bell rang, and many nights when Mammy Dicey carried the little girl up to her room she could see a line of light beneath the library door. It would be there still when she came down hours later, and twice it had been there when she went back to waken the children in the morning. It was this way to the day he left, not one minute wasted, as he drove himself on and on toward his examinations.

Natalia had at first been impatient and complaining of the neglect, then she had become wounded, and at last silent, and what might have been a joyous holiday grew more and more monotonous.

When the seventh day had come she had gone down to the big gate, taking the great cumbersome Shakespeare with her, and, settling herself comfortably against the post, had waited for the schoolmaster's return. In the happiness of seeing him again she had become quite forgiving.

The morning passed and he did not come. The afternoon dragged along until the birds had all fluttered into the grove, and gone to sleep—still, he did not come. Night came on, a question or two was asked, and at last bedtime arrived, with no news.

Mammy Dicey sat beside Natalia's bed a long time that night, singing the whole repertoire of lullabys that usually closed the dusky little lids, without avail. Natalia lay staring up at the ceiling with wide-open eyes full of doubts and fears. There had come a report the day after the schoolmaster's departure, that Jacob Phelps, a notorious highwayman, had suddenly appeared near the town and robbed the Jackson coach in broad daylight. With the incident, all the memories and experiences of the town folk were awakened, and each one was recounting what he had heard of the man. It added picturesqueness to the tales, that the freebooter was not a member of a gang, but accomplished his daring robberies without the aid of confederates; and in contrast to all the robbers that infested this new country, he killed his victims only when forced to do so in escaping. The tales had reached the children through the servants, and for Natalia there had been no peace during the long days of the schoolmaster's absence.

When Mammy Dicey had blown out the candle and left the room, closing the door tight after her, Natalia jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Raising it, and pushing the shutters far apart, she leaned out so as to get a view of the big gate.

The moon was just rising, and by its cold, white light she could see far down the empty road. She stood looking out, until the night wind chilled her, and she shivered under her thin nightgown. Finally she closed the shutters and crept back to bed, huddling herself beneath the heavy quilt until she stopped trembling. Still she could not sleep for the quick beating of her heart and her intent listening. At last she got up resolutely, tiptoed to the door and went out into the hall, where a single candle always burned at night. For a moment she hesitated at the top of the dark staircase, then crept noiselessly downstairs and through the dining-room until she reached the door that led across an open passage to the kitchen. She gave a quick sigh of relief when she saw a flickering light through the kitchen window, and rushing across the passage, burst into the room and into old Dicey's arms, as she crouched before the fire.

"Fo' de Lawd, honey chile, whut yer doin' a runnin' 'round heah in de middle ob de night!" the old woman cried, gathering the child to her deep bosom and holding her tight. "An' yer footsies all cold an' naked an' nothin' more'n yer nightgown on. Whut's de mattah, honey?"

"Oh, Mammy, why don't he come?" Natalia whispered, her head buried against the old negro.

"He's a comin', sugar, he's all right. Now—put dis shawl 'round yer an' git wahm. I'se gwine ter set up an' wait fer him an' gib him sumthin' ter eat when he gits heah. Ole Miss tole me ter do hit."

"But he said he would only be gone a week, and it's a week now, Mammy—and over. And Mammy, I was so mean to him when he went away. I wouldn't tell him good-bye because he wouldn't take me walking any more, and shut himself up and studied and studied and studied—all the time. So when he came to tell us good-bye, I told him I did not want to shake hands with him because I hated him and hoped he wouldn't ever come back. And Mammy," the tears were streaming down her face now, "he said maybe he wouldn't come back, maybe something would happen to him. Now I know what he meant—he meant Jacob Phelps might kill him."

"No—he didn't mean dat. Don' yer worry erbout him, honey. Yer don' stedy 'bout nobody but him all de time. Sence dat schoolmas'r come yer done clean fergit yer Mammy Dicey."

Natalia's arms went about the old woman's neck and hugged her tight. "I won't ever forget you, Mammy," she said. "Not for anybody. But I do love him lots—next to you. He's so good to me all the time and I love so to watch his eyes—aren't they soft and sweet? And, Mammy, he always lets me talk to him about Mamma. Then he tells me about his Mamma away up in that cold country—so far away. Don't you love to hear him talk? Even if he does talk in great big words sometimes, I just love to hear him. I don't care if I don't know what he means, it sounds so fine and beautiful, and his voice just flows and flows—like the Bayou in the spring, Mammy—oh! do you reckon Jacob Phelps has got him?"

"Sh'h—honey chile, sh'h. Cose he hain' got him. Now you just snuggle up 'ginst me an' git wahm. Whut yer want Mammy ter sing ter yer? Now—dat's a heap bettah—ain' it?"

Holding the little girl close in her arms, Dicey reached out with one hand and threw a short log upon the fire, then sitting back comfortably again, and rocking to and fro, she began singing in a barely audible whisper an intimate little lullaby, just for themselves:

"Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?

Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?

Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?

Way ober in de Promis' Lan'."

The song was of no avail. Natalia still gazed out of wide open eyes. Then Dicey changed the meter of her melody and began again:

"Whar was Moses when de light went out?

Whar was Moses when de light went out?

Whar was Moses when de light went out?

Settin' in de dark wid his mouf poked out."

Natalia always chuckled over the last words of the song, but that night she only stirred restlessly and stared up into the old slave's eyes. The flickering glow of the fire fell on Dicey's face, lighting up the countenance which had always been the dearest in the world to the little girl. The other slaves shunned the strange looking old woman, who had not come from San Domingo with them; and her high cheek-bones and the tinge of red beneath her brown skin gave credence to the story that her father was an Indian. Many of them had whispered to Natalia that her old Mammy was a Voodoo, and once, when two slaves had died of smallpox, a "conjure" bag and a tiny black coffin had been found on the doorstep which the others said Dicey had employed to gain a revenge.

But Natalia loved the old woman too deeply to be weaned from her. She and Zebediah and Dicey grew closer as the years sped along, the old hostler remaining faithful to his one partner who had worked side by side with him in the grand old days of Gayosa and the Spanish occupation. To them, Natalia was all that was left out of that glorious past.

The kitchen had always been Dicey's favourite resting place, and at night when the other slaves had finished their work and gone to the quarters, she would pull a little stool up to the hearth and crouch down before the dying embers, gazing intently into the glow and sometimes crooning softly to herself. It seemed to suit her—this great old room which had for a floor the hard, clean-swept earth, was ceiled with roughhewn beams and filled along one side with a wagonwide fireplace. And when not even a candle was left burning, it seemed to suit her even better, for then the four pots hanging from heavy cranes above the fire, the rows of iron ovens placed against the wall, the marble topped bread table, and the immense, copper preserving kettle in a far corner—all these became her eloquent friends of the past, and in their companionship she lived again the stories each held for her.

At the end of the song she glanced into Natalia's sleepless eyes and smiled. Even in her inexperience, the little girl knew that here was a love nearly akin to that of the mother she had never known.

"It's no use, Mammy, I can't go to sleep." Natalia slipped from Dicey's arms to the floor. "Look, it's nearly eleven o'clock. Oh! Mammy!" happily, "maybe he stayed at Uncle Felix's house in town. But he said he would come right back here." She ran to the window and peered out into the moonlight. Everything was deathly still. "Mammy," she said, coming back to Dicey and leaning against her, "can't you look into the fire and see pictures and find out if he is coming back? Clytie told me the other day that you were a Voodoo and could tell what would happen to people—can you?"

The old woman's eyes flashed into such angry brilliance that Natalia stepped back, crying out—"Mammy, what's the matter? I never saw you look that way before."

Dicey's brows wrinkled over her eyes into a sinister expression, while her fingers twisted themselves into strange shapes as she pressed them together in her lap.

"Clytie tole yer dat, did she? Whut else she done tole yer?"

"Nothing else, Mammy. Why are you so mad?"

"'Cause dat nigger's tryin' to put you 'ginst me—I knowed it all de time."

"But no one can do that, Mammy, and I don't mind you being a Voodoo if you'll look in the fire and see if the schoolmaster is coming back. Won't you, please, Mammy?"

"Whut yer wants ter know sich er heap 'bout dat Perfesser fur?" Dicey said, a little subdued from her excitement, and pulling Natalia back to her. "Hit's no use yer stedyin' 'bout him an' lubbin' him, 'cause he's gwine 'way from heah soon's he kin, and he's nebber gwine stedy 'bout you no mo'. Sho' an' he ain', chile, an' hit ain' no use fer yer to be a lubbin him to sich er pint. Sh'h, sugar plum, don' yer cry now," for at her words Natalia's eyes had clouded and the tears were beginning to pour down her cheeks. "I'se jest talkin'—dat's all. Cose he lubs yer—eve'ybody do. Sh'h now, and Mammy'll fin' pictures fer yer in de fire."

She knelt on the hearth and poked the back log until some glowing coals fell from it. Then she leaned forward and raked them into a heap, blowing upon them all the time to keep them alive. Natalia crept up behind her, watching intently her every movement. The room was deathly still, except for the laboured breathing of the old woman blowing life into the cooling embers, and as the moments slipped by, the moon swung opposite the window and sent a streak of ghostly light into the dark kitchen.

Natalia stared into Dicey's face, a new fear of the old woman taking possession of her. She had never seen this expression on her face, a far away look in her eyes as if she were seeing into another world and was frozen lifeless by the vision.

Natalia put one cold, trembling hand on the negro's coarsened one. There was no response to her touch. "What is it, Mammy?" she whispered. "Tell me what you see."

The old woman's body shook convulsively, then she sank upon her haunches and sat still, staring into the ashes. "I sees a long, long time afore me." She began to count automatically until she reached six, then suddenly stopped. "Six years. I sees heaps ob watah and heaps ob trabellin' 'bout. I sees a strange man wid yeller ha'r an' blue eyes. An' dah's er weddin' goin' on, and a bride ooman all dressed out waitin' fer him—an' he ain' comin'. Dah's er dead man, too. Who's he? Who's he? Fo' Gawd, I knows him. An' de bride ooman—Lawdy, honey chile," the old woman's voice rose to a shrill cry. "Honey chile, de bride ooman's you."

Dicey grabbed Natalia to her, her bosom rising and falling rapidly, her breath gasping, her eyes wild with the vision. And while they sat there, each clinging to the other under the strange spell, the loud clanging of a bell burst upon the still night. Both of them rose quickly and ran to the window. Dicey threw the sash up, and the sound of the bell rushed into the room, bringing with it the intensity of the one who was ringing it a mile away.

"Hit's de bell on Massa Puckett's plantashun," Dicey said, after she had listened a few minutes in silence. "Sumthin's done happen. Mebbe his house done ketch fire. We kin go up ter yo' room an' see."

She had picked up Natalia and carried her toward the door, when she stopped again. The sound of a galloping horse out on the highroad came to them distinctly. Another minute and the horse had stopped before the gate and they could hear some one approaching the house.

Dicey lighted a candle and held it to the window. "It's only I, Dicey," Sargent Everett's voice came out of the darkness. "Is every one safe here? Mr. Puckett has been murdered and a crowd of men are out with the bloodhounds. They think it is some of Jacob Phelps' work."

Dicey opened the door, and held the candle high to light him in. "Ole Miss done tole me ter sabe yer some suppah. I knows yer's hungry and tired out. Come in heah and set down."

Sargent entered the room, the candle light gleaming on his dusty clothes and weary features. Before he had gone half way across the room he fell into the nearest chair, from utter exhaustion.

"How's our little girl, Dicey?" were his first words.

Dicey looked up from the tray she was placing on the table, and smiled, shaking her head knowingly.

"I reckon she's all right, now dat you'se back."

All the while Natalia was watching him from the dark corner in which she stood, noting the tired look in his eyes, and the strange new expression of excitement that made his face seem almost unfamiliar. Then suddenly she flew across the room toward him, and pressed both arms tight about his neck, gazing at him with eyes grown brilliantly black.

"I'm so—so glad you've come back!"

"Fo' de Lawd!" cried Dicey, dropping a dish with a clatter. "Ain' you got no manners at all, runnin' round heah fo' a gemman wid nothin' more'n a jaybird on! I sees I'se got ter manage yer! Come heah and git up to yer room dis minit," and as the door closed after them Sargent heard the complaint growing louder and louder—"No mo' manners dan er jack-rabbit—dan er jack-rabbit!"

CHAPTER II

THE OPENED WOUND

In the afternoon of the next day, when the schoolroom had been closed, Sargent rode into the town. In his pocket he carried a letter which had come to him a few hours before, from Judge Houston.

"My most hearty congratulations," it ran, "I have heard from one of your compagnons de voyage, of your success. Are you ready for your first case? It is waiting for you. Come in this afternoon.

"FELIX HOUSTON."

His first case! Sargent read the delicate, painstaking chirography again and again. Could it be possible that he was to have a chance to plead before the bar, when his examinations were only a few days behind him!

He had received the note as he stood in the door of the little schoolhouse, with the sound in his ears of the children buzzing over their lessons, and as the full realization of its meaning swept over him, he pulled out the loud clanking watch his father had once brought him from the Bermudas, and impatiently counted the time that must elapse before he could know what the letter really meant.

It seemed hours before the time came to leave, and Zebediah stood at the door with a horse saddled and waiting for him.

"You've just come back, and you're going away already!" Natalia said plaintively, following him to the gate, her little hand clasped tight in his.

"But I shall not be gone long, Natalia—only an hour or two. And when I come back, I shall tell you all about the terrible judges who sat on a platform, all in a row, and asked me all sorts of questions about the laws of our country."

"I don't care a picayune about the judges," the little girl complained, "but I do want you to tell me all about old Mr. Puckett, and how Jacob Phelps killed him. Mammy says Mamma Brandon told her not to tell us about it, but you will, won't you?"

Sargent looked down at her, as she stood with her vivid little face, excited and intense over the subject, looking up at him, her hands clasped tight in a characteristic gesture. It always made him marvel when he saw her so passionately intent over something—for in the darkening grey eyes and warm rich glow beneath her olive skin, a wealth of hereditary influence asserted itself.

"You will tell me when you come back?" she repeated, as Sargent mounted his horse without answering.

"Wouldn't you rather hear about my first case?" he asked, avoiding an answer.

"Your first case?"

"Yes—Judge Houston says he has one for me. So I am going now to find out what it is."

Natalia slipped one hand through the bars of the great gate, and leaned against it, not in the least enthusiastic.

"I don't care much about the case," she began, almost sadly, "if it is going to take you away every day after school, and keep you from reading to me any more or taking me walking. I wouldn't care if you didn't ever have a case if it's going to be this way."

Sargent leaned from his saddle, and lifted the little girl up beside him.

"It isn't going to be that way, Natalia," he said quietly when she was comfortably adjusted and tugging at her skirts. "Nothing in the world is going to separate us—ever. Will you ride with me to the main road?"

As they passed out of the gate, the boughs of the overlapping trees casting queer shadows upon their path, the faint, pungent odour of new leaves making the air fresh and spicy, they were silent a long time, each happy and contented in a very different way.

"Then what Mammy told me last night isn't so?" Natalia broke the long silence.

"What did she tell you?"

"That you would soon be going away, and forgetting all about me."

Sargent shook his head, slowly. From where he sat he could only see the little head with its mass of black hair and two long braids. Suddenly he leaned forward and kissed it in the wide part. "I shall never forget you, Natalia. It will be quite the other way."

"Not even when I go away?"

"Not even then—but that will not be soon."

For a moment Natalia was silent; then, in a whisper, "You mustn't tell it, but—I may go next week. I heard Mamma Brandon reading a letter this week to Aunt Maria. It was from her kinsfolk in Boston. They want her to send me up there."

"To the Talbots!" Sargent exclaimed. "I know them. Morgan Talbot is my best friend. We were at college together."

"I don't want to go without you," Natalia continued slowly, then with sudden enthusiasm; "Couldn't you go with me? I'll ask Mamma Brandon as soon as I get back home."

They were at the highroad now, and Sargent drew in his rein. "It would be fine," he laughed, "but like many fine things, it's not altogether practical."

"Anyhow, I'm going right back to ask Mamma Brandon if she won't let you go," and as Sargent turned into the main road, he looked back and saw her running toward the house.

When he reached the town, the signs of the awakening season were on all sides. Lawns were being raked clean, gardens were blossoming, women were on the walks and talking to each other over fences, about the new shipment of delaines and dimities and lawns that had just come up from New Orleans. Houses were wide open and the sunlight was gilding and brightening everything. A farmer, standing in his wagon, was selling his last lot of smoked sausage to a crowd gathered about him; and selling it to advantage, for he was telling them there would be no more until next November. Old Mrs. Buckingham was airing her mattress on the front veranda, and her famous begonias had been seen on the steps for at least a week. Verily, spring had come.

The road that passed the old house of the Spaniards led directly into the town, and became its main street. As Sargent rode along it he felt a growing affection for these townsfolk and their habitations, for they had received him, not as a stranger but as an old friend. Already he was beginning to recognize nearly all the faces he saw, for with his frequent visits to the town, his walks with Judge Houston, their churchgoing each Sunday, and the many afternoons he had spent in the brick courthouse, listening to the arguing of cases where flamboyant eloquence and thundering invective usually brought success—all these associations had given him a feeling of becoming one of them.

When he had left his horse at the stable, and turned toward the tavern to get a late newspaper—there had been a boat that day—-he noticed the unusual crowd gathered on the street, particularly in the courthouse yard and before the jail.

"Is there a boat in, or a coach, or an Indian massacre?" he asked,—when he had stopped at the greeting of some friends.

"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Mr. Pintard, a wealthy planter from an adjoining county.

"You forget I live in the country," Sargent explained, smiling. "But I trust all this excitement warrants your interest."

"Josiah Puckett was murdered last night and Jacob Phelps has been trapped and brought into town. He's over there in the jail now. We've got him this time."

"Then he was the man who killed Mr. Puckett?" Sargent asked quickly.

"There's no doubt of it. The hounds tracked him to the canebrake on Puckett's place. It's wonderful—the first time he was ever captured in his whole career!"

"And now that we've got him," commented Mr. Suggs, joining the group, "I don't see why he should have any trial. We all know what he's done, and I say there's no excuse for waiting: I say string him up to-night! But!—Judge Houston says not. He says the man must be tried—that we are barbarians no longer. So the trial is to come off next week."

"A trial!" exclaimed Pintard. "What good is a trial without a defence, and who would defend Phelps? I'll wager you could not find a man in the county who would take the case."

"Not so fast, my friend," drawled Mr. Suggs. "Somebody has been found to defend him."

The crowd gathered closer. Suggs always carried startling tidings; it was part of his profession.

"Who?" demanded the half dozen listeners.

"Mr. Lemuel Jervais!" Mr. Suggs pronounced the name quietly, with the enjoyment of one who delighted in throwing bombs.

"Lemuel Jervais! You don't mean it! It's a damned lie! Why, he wouldn't dare! He couldn't afford it!"

Mr. Suggs drew himself to his full height, swelling portentously beneath his linsey waistcoat, and looked each man squarely in the eye.

"Gentlemen," he answered, "if you can not take the word of a gentleman, go in the Mansion House bar and ask Mr. Jervais himself. I just left him there." Then, from a more antagonistic height, "And I'd like to know who the blackguard is who called what I said, 'a damned lie'!"

"Why has Jervais done this!" Sargent exclaimed, ignoring the last remark. "There must be some good reason. Of course, he can explain it."

"Oh yes,—he explains it," Suggs answered, his anger diverted. "He says he's had a streak of bad luck lately, and he's got to pay up some way. Phelps offered him a thousand dollars to clear him."

"He'll never win that thousand," Pintard commented. "He might as well throw up the case now. Clear Phelps in this town, where we all know what he's been doing for ten years! Why, man, it's ridiculous!"

Mr. Suggs leisurely folded his arms and looked reflectively in the direction of the jail.

"On the contrary," he remarked, "it will be very easy for him to clear Phelps. The evidence is only circumstantial. No one saw him commit the murder. Nobody can swear to it. All they know is that he was captured in a canebrake near Puckett's house, on the night of the murder, and it will take a mighty good lawyer to convince the jury that he is the murderer; that is, unless the trial is overruled by sentiment, and it's not likely to be, with Felix Houston as judge. I'll tell you, gentlemen, I don't want the prosecution. It's not a job worth having."

"Somebody's got to do it, though. Attorney Semmes has been sick for a month and can not leave his home. Who'll they get?"

"The Judge will appoint some one to-morrow morning, I understand." Mr. Suggs replied from his inexhaustible store of information. "And let us all pray," he added, meekly folding his hands across his breast, "that it won't be one of us."

Sargent slipped away from the crowd, unnoticed. The possible meaning of Judge Houston's note rushed over him, bringing with it an army of hopes and fears. Could it be that he himself was to represent the State in this trial? The idea stuck in his thoughts with the potency of truth. Under its influence he walked rapidly in the direction of his friend's home, with the question obliterating his surroundings.

He was passing the Mansion House when he heard his name called loudly, and turning, found Jervais staggering toward him, out of the barroom.

"Hello, Everett! Didn't know you could walk so fast." Jervais slapped him on the back and laughed noisily. Sargent took the outstretched hand and then dropped it quickly, in his desire to get away from the man, for Jervais when sober had always been irritating to him, almost insulting in his hauteur; drunk, he was both disgusting and dangerous. They had met frequently during the winter, for it was the regular custom of Jervais to take Sunday dinner with Mrs. Brandon, a fact which Sargent had never been able to understand. Nothing seemed so incongruous to him as the cool, self-possessed, formal chatelaine receiving attention from a man of Jervais's calibre and reputation. The man had never grown congenial, and during the last months their discussions at the dinner table had been so heated that Sargent had chosen that day to spend in long rides, in preference to sitting through a dinner of several hours, opposite a man whose political and social beliefs were so directly opposed to his own. Judge Houston had laughed over the antagonism, telling Sargent it was good training for him to meet such a man and learn to restrain himself. Sargent had answered that restraint, when it was a matter of convictions and creeds, was worthless.

"Haven't seen you since you got in the ring," Jervais continued unsteadily. "How d'you feel? Like you could conquer the world, I suppose! How many years do you think you'll have to wait for a case?—Ten—eh? Say—wait a minute—will you?" as Sargent struggled from his grasp. "Want to tell you something—it's a secret. Phelps offered me a thousand dollars to clear him. I had to take it—been gambling too much lately. But I tell you, Everett, I don't want the Widow Brandon to hear about it. Now—don't tell her—will you?"

"Of course not, Jervais; I'll not mention it to her. But you had better tell her yourself. Of course she will hear of it from some one. Good-bye, I'm in a hurry."

"Say, Everett," Jervais still clung to his arm. "When are you going to have your first case? Im dead anxious to see you before the bar. A Yankee schoolteacher a lawyer—that'll be rich! Say—a crippled one, too—that'll be a joke." He ended with another loud burst of merriment.

For a second Sargent stared into the leering face of the drunken man. Then, trembling in a spasm of rage, his fingers knotted themselves together, and before he was aware of what he was doing, his arm had shot up and delivered a blow full into Jervais' face.

As soon as he had done it, a strange calm swept over him, and he stood as one aloof, looking on the result of his act.

Jervais staggered back a step, wheeled in an attempt to keep his balance, and fell full length upon the pavement.

In a second a crowd was about them, several assisting Jervais to rise.

When he had regained his feet, Sargent made a step toward him—"Is he hurt?" he asked very quietly.

"No—don't you know you can't hurt a drunken man?"

Then Jervais made a lunge toward him, but was held back by two men who were supporting him. His face was distorted into the trembling features of rage, flushed a purple crimson, and from his eyes shot out the fury of unchained hatred. Sargent involuntarily looked away, sickened.

"You damned cripple!—to insult me in the street!" Jervais shouted in his fury. "You can't fight like a man with a man. You'd claim you were not able, I suppose! But I demand satisfaction! I'll have it, too. There's one way to settle this thing—d'you hear? A way to settle this for good!"

"Very well—we'll settle it whenever you wish." Sargent wheeled quickly and walked from the crowd.

Half a block away he found himself suddenly standing before some one who barred the way. When he had felt both his arms in a tight grip, and heard the sound of a familiar, hearty laugh, he looked up and recognized Captain Mentdrop.

For a moment his excitement and surprise kept back a greeting, so that the old Captain's face lost its geniality and the twinkle in his eyes became frank disappointment. "So you've forgotten me, have you?" he said, with an odd little ring in his voice.

"No—no, Captain!" Sargent struggled to force the words. "Of course I have not forgotten you, but I don't want to talk to you here. Can't we get away somewhere?"

The old fellow's keen eyes swept Sargent's face, reading there the signs of the recent struggle.

"What's up, youngster?" He bent a little forward. "What's a troublin' you? Your face is as red as a beet, and you've got a mighty bad glare in your eyes. Come on up to my room here in the Mansion House. I was resting very comfortable-like up there, till I saw some sort of a scuffle going on out here." Then with a quick intuition, he searched Sargent's face again. "It ain't possible you were mixed up in it!"

They went up the tavern steps and altered the Captain's room. When the old fellow had closed the door after them, he turned back to Sargent, who had sunk into a chair near the window, and watched the young fellow, his lips twitching slightly and his eyes crisply twinkling with the humour he was struggling to keep back.

"You weren't mixed up in it, youngster, were you?" he repeated, with his lips twitching again.

Sargent met his look squarely. "Yes, I was in it. A street fight! I knocked Lemuel Jervais down!"

"You! Lemuel Jervais—Oh!" And the Captain could restrain himself no longer. He dropped into a chair, the whole of his great frame shaking with loud gusts of laughter, while the tears gushed forth and rolled down his furrowed cheeks. "On my honour—it's too good to believe," he cried breathlessly. "You and Lem Jervais in a street fight. And when you were on that boat with me I thought you were as harmless as a kitten. Gee Whillikens!" and he let out a long whistle, "but you are a promising youngster—after all. Easy, now. Don't blaze your eyes at me that way. I wasn't the cause of it. When you get cooled down a-plenty, tell me about it. Ugh, but you are huffy about it!" as Sargent remained impervious to his humour. "You know what I do when I get that upset? I just lock myself up in my cabin where nobody can get to me and I can get to nobody, and I cuss everybody and everything that I can get my mind on—you ought to hear me! I can cuss like a beauty when I get warmed up to my subject, and will you believe me, sir, when I come out I'm as cool as a cucumber. Honest Injun, I am—just like a May morning. Want to try it? I'll give you the room to yourself. Well—if you won't, maybe telling me about it will help you let off a little steam. Now—how d' it start?"

Sargent raised his head at the last question, and looked into the twinkling grey eyes before him. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and unsteady.

"He was drunk and laughed at me—laughed at my deformity! He said it would be a joke for me to plead any case before the bar. I, a Yankee school-teacher—a crippled one at that!"

The Captain was out of his chair and before Sargent in a second. The twinkle had gone out of his eyes. They were steely now.

"The damned scoundrel! And you?"

"I knocked him down."

"Before the whole crowd? Good! Then?"

"He challenged me."

The old fellow's face brightened.

"Better still! When'll it be?"

"I don't know yet."

"Am I the first you've talked to?"

"Yes."

"Good! Good! I'll help you. I'll be your second."

The old fellow rubbed his hands together and the gleam came back into his eyes, while his furrowed face became tinged with a faint glow that shone youthful beneath the coarsened, weather-worn skin.

Sargent stared at him blankly.

"You," he exclaimed, seemingly without comprehension.

"Yes, I—that is," and the Captain glanced at him with a tinge of resentment, "unless you prefer some one else."

Sargent grasped his hands silently.

"That's right; you let me take charge of this thing, boy. I'll do it up in ship-shape." He let his hand drop with rough affection on Sargent's shoulder. "It's mighty lucky I'm going to be here for two weeks. My boilers are out of fix and I'm tied up repairs. Let me know when you get the challenge and I'll help you fix the whole thing. I know all about how these things are done. Now, don't go back on me, and think you ought to ask a younger fellow, for if anything should happen to you and I had to take your place, there ain't a living soul dependent on me."

Sargent rose without a word. Then, turning suddenly, he went out of the room and down the steps, followed by the old fellow, who still held his arm in a firm grasp. Stopping when they had reached the pavement, the Captain glanced once more at the young fellow's face, his twinkling eyes beaming affectionately from their thousand encircling wrinkles.

"Who'd 'a' thought when we parted on the boat that day, that we'd meet in a mix-up like this? I kind a' felt all along that you were going to make your name. I can size up a promising youngster every time. Just to think of it!" and he ended with a slap on Sargent's shoulder. "Good-bye, and don't forget," he lowered his voice confidentially, "I'm going to be your second. D'you hear? Even if you didn't ask me. It's all of my own choosing."

CHAPTER III

A DEMAND OF HONOUR

The balmy twilight had softened into night as Sargent walked away from the tavern, and in the sudden privacy of the darkness the diverting influence of the old Captain's personality faded, and all the details of his encounter with Jervais returned to him with an added intensity.

Again, as he felt the moment he struck Jervais, there came to him a sensation of burning alive under the insult—the insult that he could not repudiate. The blood rushed to his head and pounded like a great firing of artillery, and when he had crossed the street from the tavern, and struck into a deserted thoroughfare, he leaned against a fence to keep from falling, for the mental agony had brought with it a keen sense of physical weakness. Why was this curse of physical deformity to follow him always! Was it some punishment of God's that was to be eternal? The saner forces of his nature, the gentle influences of his early training, the memories which had so far kept him pure and noble, receded under this sudden unloosening of the resentment against his infirmity which he had always forced himself to subdue. With this unchaining of all restraint, he became for the moment another creature. Barbaric instincts came to life, and he felt the thrill of a discoverer at finding such characteristics in his possession.

Then, out of the swirling ensemble, came one thought that quickly chained everything else into submission—a determination to meet Jervais in the trial of Phelps, to oppose him, to defeat him, to bring him to an inexorable failure before the Court, to make his fall so great that he would be robbed even of any desire for future honours: That would be his revenge. Afterward, he would not care what happened in the duel; nothing would matter after he had fully tasted the sweetness of his revenge. So completely had he sunk under the obsession of this new line of thought that when he entered Judge Houston's unlighted library a few minutes later, the metamorphosis showed in every line of his features.

He spoke no word of greeting, only grasped the extended hand and looked into the kind eyes of the old gentleman with fixed intensity.

"Was the case you meant, the prosecution of Phelps?"

Judge Houston stepped back from him, surprised into a short silence by the wild expression in Sargent's eyes.

"Yes—how did you guess it?"

"Thank God!"

The words escaped Sargent in a sob that was the concentrated expression of his suffering. He sank into a familiar chair beside the table, and let his head drop into his hands.

The old man looked at him in silence, surprise, sympathy and fear glowing in his clear blue eyes. Finally he walked over to Sargent and rested his hand on the young fellow's shoulder.

"What is it, boy? What is troubling you so?"

"It is only the relief your words have given me. My only fear was that I might be mistaken."

The Judge's brow was wrinkled a long time as he puzzled over the words.

"Were you so anxious to have the case?" he asked. "You know, I was half afraid you might not want it."

Sargent lifted his face and met the kind eyes. "Yes, I want it! I'm going to make it the case of my life! It will be my first, but I'm going to make it the greatest one of my career. If I ever go down in history as a big man, this case will be the great one of them all!"

The old man was still bewildered. He moved away slowly and pushing his chair up opposite Sargent, sat down and faced him, frankly studying his face, watching the swift changes playing across it, noting the strange, new determination that was already hardening the gentle lines about his mouth. He felt his own heart suddenly contract with a sharp sense of disappointment, for he had hoped to keep this boy, by means of his influence and help, fresh and young in the battle of life; but he saw now that something had forestalled him; something had already come with a blighting sting.

He had been quick to read the sensitive, imaginative, capable nature of Sargent the first time they had clasped hands. He had seen the wonderful possibilities that would develop under the right influences—the remarkable capacity for right and wrong, whichever it would be that would tip the scales; and in that moment that the resemblance to his own son had struck him, he had felt all the denied love of a father stir within him and give itself to the boy. Afterwards, he had gone further in his advances than ever before in his long life; he had given him the freedom of his library, directing him in the use of books, even preparing him for the legal examination with his own questions, which he made more difficult than necessary. All the while he had felt the intellectual joy of watching a brilliant mind expanding and grasping new subjects; of looking far back into the shadowy past through the rich imagination of a youthful mind. And with the father love that bound him to Sargent, was blended a sense of pride that the youth should grow along by his side, becoming under his tutelage the actual expression of all the unrealized ideals of his own life.

But something had jarred the perfect sympathy; some enemy was already tugging at the cords that bound them.

In the circle of lamplight lay a weather-worn, leather bound book. It had been brought from Virginia on the long pilgrimage to the South, and had always been a friend and a book of comfort. Instinctively the old man's hand went out and touched it.

"It will be a difficult case," Sargent heard him saying, as if more to himself than to any listener. "Yes—it is almost hopeless. You can not possibly win it. I only wanted you to have the experience. It will get you well started before the public."

"Why do you say it is hopeless?"

"There is so little evidence. You can not convict a man without proofs."

"Is there absolutely nothing?"

"Oh, yes," the old man answered, patiently. "There are a few circumstances. We can go into that later. There is plenty of time. What I want to know now is," and he dropped his voice into a lower tone, and looked at Sargent tenderly, "what is troubling you? Don't you care to tell me?" he ended, with a frank note of pleading in his voice.

Sargent met his look unflinchingly. "I have never kept anything from you," he began. "Why should I now, when you have done so much for me! Only," and he hesitated, with the certainty that what he was going to say would perhaps alter their friendship for ever. A feeling of restraint made him silent, and with a leap his thoughts went back to the other man, the Captain, the one who had weathered the storms of a pioneer's life, and even in his old age was still a boy. He found himself longing for the comradeship and joviality of the one who saw only a desirable notoriety in fighting a duel; and yet, in the kaleidoscopic varying of thought, he knew that in a saner moment he would seek only the one now before him, for advice. The Captain represented to him the expression of untempered passion, and at this moment that was the one thing that his nature demanded.

In this light the calmness of Judge Houston became to him cold criticism, before which he quailed.

Words that might in some way palliate his action rushed to his lips, finding excuses that a moment before, in the absorption of his anger, he would have despised.

"You believe," he said at last, in a more controlled voice, "that there sometimes come in a man's life circumstances that rob him of the faculty of reasoning? Perhaps one incident that blots out everything that has gone before, leaving in its place only one absorbing determination. You believe that, don't you?"

Judge Houston bowed his head silently.

"You believe too that there are things in life that a man must resent—must resent even by going against all the laws of God and man—that unless he does resent them the rest of his life must be without self-respect and without honours. Then, if a man does not fight, life is rendered valueless to him, both in his own eyes and those of the community, and existence becomes a burden! At times like these one must choose between two evils. I have chosen the least of the two."

"A duel!" The old man rose from his chair, and paced the floor, his hands clasped behind him. "A duel? With whom?"

His lips were twitching slightly, and his hands—old, worn hands, which the years had left drawn and stretched into a thousand creases, and the sight of which, clasping and unclasping in his nervousness, smote Sargent with a keen, knifelike pain, through the knowledge that he was causing the old gentleman to suffer for his sake. He put out his hand impulsively, and grasped the other's when he passed close to him.

"Don't blame me—forgive me," he said. "Don't make it any harder than it is already. I believe in my heart you would have done the same."

"Tell me, my boy." The Judge's voice was full of sympathy.

The torrent of words came at last, and as he told his story Sargent found a relief that left him weak and exhausted. The strain was reaching its limit.

"Ah! you don't blame me," he ended brokenly. "I knew you would not!"

With his words, a reflection of the anger of his own eyes had sprung alive in the old man's. Judge Houston stood before Sargent, his hands gripping the shoulders of the young fellow with an intensity of sympathy.

"Don't say any more," he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. "I understand. I will stand with you."

"You!" Sargent moved away quickly, and stood staring at him. "You!" And then his lips trembled. The end of his strength came, and he threw himself across the sofa, his face in his hands, his whole body shaking convulsively. "It's more than I deserve," he said. "That all this should have come to me in one day—this hatred, and Captain Mentdrop's friendship—and your—love. It is too much to understand."

The old gentleman stood a moment beside the table, his hand again on the leather bound volume. As a shaft of light penetrated through the open door, it rested on him a moment, concentrating in the beautiful gentle eyes, and shining forth, in a deeper, fuller glory.

He went slowly to the sofa and sat down beside Sargent, his hand resting with its peacegiving power upon the bowed head.

In a long silence that followed, his lips were still, but within was a constantly repeated prayer, "God give me the power to lead him right. Give me this power—if nothing else." Then aloud, as the voice of his wife called to them from the dining-room. "It is nothing that I am doing for you—only what I would have done for my son—and yoy have come to take his place."

CHAPTER IV

HIS FIRST CASE

So the schoolhouse was closed again on the following Monday, and Sargent rode into the town to plead his first case before the bar.

In the open square of the town, set far back in a grove of trees, stood the brick courthouse, considered a large building in those days. In its Hall of Justice was a plastered ceiling on which an architect from the old world had fashioned a circle of hands, each with its forefinger pointing directly down upon the heads of those who sat in judgment.

Home-seekers, coming there in an attempt to settle hopelessly involved land suits: destitute, silent Indians, squatting on the door steps awaiting the decision of some land agent; slaves brought in shiploads from the Bermudas; even wealthy planters looked upon this Hall of Justice with a certain awe. The plastered hands were ominous and unavoidable; always when one looked at them they were pointing so directly at one that it had grown into a saying that when a man was brought before the judges he was "beneath the pointing fingers."

About the courthouse that day was gathered an unusual crowd, for at such a season of the year, when the fields must be ploughed and cotton planted, court was never very largely attended.

Down a long line of hitching posts was almost every conceivable vehicle, including a huge prairie schooner filled with a curious crowd from the Black River country. Whole families, parents, children, slaves, and favourite dogs were picnicking about the square—all had come many miles to hear the trial of a man who had made safety a very uncertain thing for the last five years.

Sargent threaded his way among them, unknown, yet feeling a greater responsibility resting upon him as he saw this evidence of the people's interest. They were looking to him to remove this murderer from their midst. As he went into the courthouse, he met Judge Houston. The old gentleman extended his hand, and for a second smiled encouragingly into the strained eyes of the young lawyer.

"You've been overdoing it, Sargent," he said quietly. "You should have rested. Too much reading of law paralyzes the brain."

Sargent met his look earnestly, without the smile that was always so ready upon his lips.

"I couldn't sleep, and I had to do something. I believe I've read every murder case on record."

"And have you discovered a method by which you can win this one?"

Sargent's eyes glowed brilliantly as he answered. "Your doubt of me is the greatest factor in forcing me on. I don't know how I shall do it, but—I'm going to make that jury render a verdict of guilty."

The old gentleman's brows drew together, and he shook his head slowly, letting his hand rest affectionately on Sargent's shoulder.

"I only hope you will succeed, Sargent—as much for the people's sake as for your own. If justice is not meted out to Phelps by law, I fear it will come to him through the hatred of the people. Go now, boy—do your best. And remember, I have failed many and many a time, others are failing continually, and no one really succeeds until failure has been his tutor. Good-bye! Meet me when the day's session is over."

All through that first day, which was given over to the hearing of evidence, Sargent had grown more and more under the conviction that if he were to win the case it would come from some inspiration which had not yet been given to him. Not that he had for a moment given up hope, for each time such a thought flashed into his mind, it was followed by the thundering necessity for success. And when Phelps was brought into the room and he could look for the first time into the face of the man whose freedom he was attempting to take from him, Sargent forgot everything else in studying the highwayman's features. In them he had suddenly realized an aid to his success.

All through the cross-examination of the witnesses he was thinking of it, even to the intense moment when the two scraps of paper were displayed: one a gun wadding found in the house of the murdered man and the other in the pocket of Jacob Phelps. The two pieces were from a paper of the same date, and though not fitting into each other were considered the strongest evidence against the prisoner. Besides that, only the proximity of the canebrake where Phelps was captured, and a long, detailed report of his former daring robberies were all that he had been able to procure.

The weak point of the evidence was that not an instance of murder could be charged to Phelps. There had always been a doubt of his guilt—and in this Jervais showed his strength. Each of his questions led in labyrinthine windings to the end that nothing had been proved on the prisoner. Indeed, those who swore they recognized him were eventually misled into the belief that they were swearing to an uncertainty.

Finally the recess hour came, and in the afternoon, after all the evidence had been taken, the court adjourned until the next day, when the speeches for the two sides should be made.

Sargent waited for Judge Houston outside the courthouse. He had walked to one side of the grounds where he would not meet the crowd of familiar faces, and be forced to discuss the case, for already he had been quick to feel the disappointment that had settled over them after all the evidence had been heard. Their silence and lowered voices showed their fears, and passing a group hurriedly at the recess hour, he had heard a doubt expressed at Judge Houston's wisdom in appointing him to represent the State. Many little incidents of the day were remembered by him long afterwards, which, in the concentration of all his energies at the time, he had not even been aware of. All he wanted at that moment was material with which to impress the jury—material which was lacking he realized with a sickening dread.

As he stood under the trees and faced the court-house, its brick walls glowing in the late sun, once more the prisoner's face rose before him, photographing itself indelibly upon his mind. Each feature stood out enlarged and vivid; black eyes, bold and fearless and insolent, with the surrounding whites almost entirely red from swollen veins; a low forehead from which black, wiry hair grew out, straight and stiff; a long, aquiline nose with wide nostrils in which showed a heavy growth of hair; heavy lips, the lower one protruding doggedly, yet both suggesting a certain generosity in their amplitude; the chin and side of the face covered with a short beard which reached far up the cheeks to where pock marks glowed deep and white against a swarthy complexion. It was a face characteristic of daring and wild deeds, yet in some lines about the eyes, inscrutable and haunting, there was something unconfessed.

All through the channels of Sargent's imagination, set in motion by this face, insistently colouring every conclusion reached, was the hidden characteristic about the man's eyes which signified something which he felt certain would help him in some way if he could find out what it meant. In a swift passion of futility he pushed out his hands to ward off the first signal of defeat that was steadily creeping over him. He covered his eyes to keep out the likeness of Phelps' face as it glowered down upon him from the court-house wall. Was it possible that he had failed? Had he been too self-confident? Was it only hatred and a desire for vengeance which had made up the ingredients of his confidence? At the end of each question stood the face of Jervais, and the duel—after that, another question. Finally, through the lengthening shadows, he strolled back to the broad steps and waited Judge Houston's coming.

They walked home in the twilight, the old man's arm linked in Sargent's, their heads bent forward in thoughtful silence.

"Did you look at him? Did you see his face?" Sargent asked as they turned the corner and approached the house.

"Whose face?" Judge Houston looked up quickly.

"The man's—Jacob Phelps."

"Yes—why?"

"Did you see anything in it but cruelty—malignity—daring?"

"No—there was nothing else."

"Oh, but you are mistaken. There is something else."

"What?"

"I don't know. I'd give half my life to find out. I must find out to-night—I will!"

Mrs. Houston was standing at the gate to welcome them, Natalia on her pony before the block, both of them silent in their impatience to hear the outcome of the first day.

"You all are bothered! I can see that right now. And such glum faces—look at them, Natalia," Mrs. Houston said cheerfully, as the two men came up to them. "I declare you all look as if Phelps was prosecuting you, instead of the reverse! And I have gone to lots of trouble to get up a good supper for you—lye-hominy, some nice, fresh roasted yams, and waffles! And here you both look like you wouldn't eat a mouthful, and Natalia says she won't stay either!" Mrs. Houston sighed in much distress. "I wish sometimes there was no such thing as law. It upsets my dinner hour and my plans, and is disastrous in lots of ways."

"So you'd rather have your dinner on time," laughed Judge Houston, "than all the highwaymen in the country in jail!" He walked across the sidewalk to speak to Natalia, leaving Sargent and his wife together.

"Is it so bad?" she asked quickly, her face searching Sargent's anxiously. "Are you worried about the outcome?"

"I know I shall win!" Sargent's eyes blazed again, "but I don't know yet how I shall do it. If I should fail now—"

"Of course you will not. Don't let that enter your thoughts. Can't Felix help you?"

"Not now," Sargent answered, his features still drawn and tense. "It's all with me now, and I'm glad of it."

The gentle old lady looked at the youth before her, so earnest and flushed, her eyes clouding at the possible disappointment awaiting him. She had seen all these hopes and desires so often before, in the days long passed when she and her young husband had started on their long pilgrimage. Then, looking beyond him, her eyes dwelt on Natalia pensively. When she spoke again her face was brimming with cheerfulness.

"On your way home," she said softly, "be very good to her. Forget all this worry and this abstraction and talk to her. It will do you good. Do you realize the place you have taken in the child's life? It has made me wonder if it was good for her or not. Sometimes," she ended, reflectively, "I wonder what you have done to gain her love so—and yet, I think I know."

Sargent glanced to where Natalia was leaning from her saddle and talking intently with Judge Houston. For the first time that day the tenseness of his face relaxed, and the memory of the courtroom and all it meant slipped from him.

"I believe I gained her love," he answered slowly, "by first loving her. Don't you think that is the only real way to gain another's love?"

"Yes—there are very few who fail to respond to being loved. It is so flattering," she smiled lightly. "But Natalia needed you just when you came. You know how out of sympathy she and Mrs. Brandon are?"

"That is not to be wondered at. Could you possibly find two more opposite natures? One—cool, calculating, and always just; the other—intense, wilful, passionate. Look at her now! She's more like some little fairy who has been lost from other fairies than anything else in the world. And how old she is at times! I feel that I am talking to some one a great deal older than I am. Tell me, Mrs. Houston," Sargent leaned nearer on the gate and his voice sank to a whisper, "now that she is going away, how can I make her remember me? If she were to go away and forget me—"

"She will not do that, my dear boy." She pressed his hand gently. "She's at the impressionable age, and she loves you with all her little, pent-up nature. She will not forget."

Sargent met her glance warmly. "You see, it is so different with me, from most men. My sensitiveness, my wretched infirmity, seems to make everything so much more serious to me. And when any one gets hold of my affections, I feel a tremendous need for them always. That is the way with Natalia—it was her sweet dependence, her yearning for sympathy, her quaint charm that have bound me tocher for ever. Of course she is only a child now," he hesitated suddenly, as if half unwilling to express his real feelings, "but if I could have the hope that she would come back to me some day—a woman loving me as she does now—anything would be worth enduring—for that!"

"If you all are going to talk all the evening, I'm going home," Natalia cried, from her pony. "And I told Zebby I'd be home surely by six o'clock."

Sargent hurriedly mounted his horse, which had been brought to the gate, and waved a farewell to Mrs. Houston. "Good-bye," she called to them, waving her handkerchief as they rode off. "I'm going to hear you make your maiden speech to-morrow. Good luck to you. Good-bye, Natalia."

It was almost dark when Sargent and Natalia left the town behind them, and through the dark forest bordering the cotton fields, a feathery crescent moon floated up and greeted them. The balmy spring breeze blew in their faces, and in the Western sky still lingered the faint glow of sunset. The cabins were sending up thin lines of white smoke, the delicious odour of fried bacon was in the air, and the sound of some one chopping wood in the distance gave a homely touch of comfort to the scene. Completing the peaceful holiness of the spring twilight came the harmonies of the slaves, singing as they went home from the day's work.

They rode along in silence. Natalia, dangling her little bonnet from its green ribbons, looked up at Sargent intently, but his eyes did not answer hers. They were bent on some distant object that she knew she could never see, and sighing slightly, she resigned herself to waiting for him to become aware of her presence. In her childlike adoration, there was sufficient happiness in being near him.

When the gate loomed before them through the vista of trees, Natalia guided her pony closer to Sargent, until he was forced to notice her.

"Aunt Maria said you were terribly bothered," she said, when he looked down at her out of his long abstraction. "Is that what makes you so different?" she ended plaintively.

"Yes—that's it, Natalia," Sargent answered, his brows knitted close together. "It seems to have ruined my whole outlook. I can't think of anything else. All the way home I could see nothing but that man's face. I believe I'm beginning to lose hope, too. Would you be sorry if Mr. Jervais won the case from me?"

Natalia looked up at him, drawing the pony to a sudden standstill in her amazement.

"Mr. Jervais can't do that! You wouldn't let him! I hate him anyhow!" She clenched her little hand. "Please don't let him win."

"Suppose I can not help myself? Suppose he has all the evidence on his side? What can I do then?"

"Well—" she said slowly, as if attempting to arrive at some conclusion. "Well—isn't Phelps a murderer?"

"Every one thinks so. But I can not prove it."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then," with an impatient toss of the head, "it's just as easy as can be. Make him say it is so."

Sargent threw back his head and laughed heartily for the first time in many days. And all the while Natalia stared at him with an expression that spoke eloquently surprise and wounded pride.

"Well, you needn't laugh so much about it!" she exclaimed, as Sargent's amusement seemed to increase. "You could make him tell you if you had a mind to. Mammy says you have a silver tongue, and when people have that, they can make other people tell everything they know. I don't care though, if you don't make him tell," she cried, the tears coming into her eyes as Sargent continued laughing. They were at the gate now, and as he lifted her from the pony, she struggled out of his arms and flew toward the house. "I don't care a picayune if you don't ever win a case!" she called back to him from the veranda, and then slammed the door tight after her.

Sargent walked slowly toward his room. The smile had gone from his face now, and in its place was an odd, quickening expression.

"Make him tell you!" he repeated Natalia's words as he unlocked the door of his room. "Make him tell you!" he repeated, as he blew out his candle, hours later. "Make him tell you!" he repeated all through that long, sleepless night.

CHAPTER V

MAGNETISM

The two men faced each other, the lawyer at one end of the long table, the prisoner barely ten feet away, in his chair before the jury. The moment was tense. Everything had been finished, even Jervais' eloquent speech to the jury, in which he had cautioned the twelve men not to let sentiment lead them to a decision, but to be guided only by the evidence and what had absolutely been proved. And now remained only the speech of the prosecution, on which rested the hopes of every one in the courtroom.

Even the jury had grown restless under the continued want of facts in the case. Their attitude toward the prisoner was but a reflection of the sentiment of the townspeople—they feared the man; his presence was a menace always to be faced; they wanted to be freed from his disturbing proximity; and they wanted to feel that long trips to neighbouring villages would be without the danger of this highwayman. In short they wanted him dead.

But what they had heard was not convicting. It was impossible, so far, to render a verdict of guilty, on what had been shown.

During the silence that followed Jervais' speech, Sargent rose from his chair, and stepped forward. A wave of disappointment rushed over the courtroom, for the people had hoped to the last that their district attorney would be able to leave his bed and come to the rescue, convicting the prisoner through the eloquence they had known for years. But everything seemed in favour of the prisoner, every one admitted that Jervais had made the finest speech of his career, and now that their great attorney had been substituted by a youth who had not even made his first speech before the bar, Phelps' chances for acquittal were depressingly certain.

What could this young lawyer do? This limping, Yankee schoolteacher who had come South to make a living? What could he do but complete the fiasco of the trial? A titter was heard at one end of the courtroom, followed by an outright laugh, and then, suddenly, silence fell again as a counter wave of interest fell over the audience. Something in the position of the two men—the lawyer and the prisoner—had claimed their attention.

Sargent, in rising, had not faced the jury, but stood perfectly silent and rigid, his gaze riveted upon the prisoner. In his eyes was no sign of fear, but a calm watchfulness of some expected danger. The prisoner returned the look, his blood-shot eyes keen and cat-like in the intensity of the passion boiling back of them. His coarse, unkempt hair hung in masses over his forehead, his rough skin and uneven beard and crouching posture but intensified his expression of brutality and vicious force.

The two seemed born to be antagonistic: the absolute want of visible sympathy made the contrast impressive.

Sargent put aside his cane and steadied himself with one hand upon the table; the other he held half poised, as if in the act of defence, for that morning a strange story had been whispered about, and during Jervais' speech it had reached him. He had been told that Phelps was desperate enough to attack him even in the courtroom.

Then, with his gaze still searching the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner, he began his speech. It took the intent crowd of listeners several minutes to adjust themselves to what was happening; then they found that the young lawyer was not talking to them, nor to the Judge, nor even to the jury. His words were directed only to the man before him.

In a low, clear voice, heard in every corner of the courtroom, he was describing to the prisoner, in pitiless detail, the crime committed; painting vividly the scene of the murder, the aged, respected planter lying dead on the floor of his room, a pool of blood about him, his belongings scattered everywhere, his valuables all gone. He told of the man's life, his charity, his good influence upon his neighbours. He described him at home, at his evening meal, surrounded by a happy and dependant family; his awakening in the night to find himself in the grip of a brutal antagonist—and at last, his feeble death struggle with an unseen foe.

The words came from his lips cold, crisp, clear cut, without feeling, yet so forcibly were they chosen, so short and cogent, that they fell upon the ears of his listeners like the beat of a huge hammer upon marble.

The scene rose before the listeners with a vividness that the real one would have lacked, for the wonderful voice of the young lawyer had set fire to their imaginations, and each man saw through his eyes. Every sentence jarred like an electric shock. There was no attempt at eloquence. Where was the need of it with such a subject? And while Sargent was unconsciously inflaming the passions of the crowd back of him, he continued to gaze straight into the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner with all the pent-up vital force within him. If he could only see the faintest sign of acknowledged guilt! That was the thing for which he was searching. It had not yet come.

For a moment his eyes wavered, and as if looking for some new inspiration, he glanced through the open windows to where the leaves of the trees were rustling in the breeze. He had found the prisoner impervious to his words. It was as if he had not been talking, so far as any change in the stolid features showed. There must be some other method necessary to touch the face of iron before him. But he had not reached the limit of his resources yet—no, not by half.

He turned back and faced the prisoner, as fresh and calm as if all the turbulence of a few moments ago had not come from his lips.

Now his eyes held no longer the look of scorn and antagonism. They were tender, appealing and sad. His voice softened and grew warm in its tones, and from him emanated that irresistible gentleness that, we are told, in after years drew even his enemies to him. He was using the utmost force of his magnetism to draw a confession from the man before him.

He began speaking again, telling of the family of the man who had been murdered, dwelling with a deep sympathy upon the young, fatherless children, who had to take up the burden of life without the guidance of their parent. Then, almost in a whisper, and with deep reverence, he spoke of the bereaved wife, a widow and a mother, a feeble woman, no longer young, left alone to care for the children, separated from her life partner and left to finish her days unprotected. He drew a telling picture of his own mother, of every man's mother, in a like situation.

There were tears in the eyes of the audience as they listened, there were tears in the eyes of the lawyer, and suddenly, as his words ended in a faint whisper, the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner shifted uneasily and were hidden for a moment by the falling lids.

A quiver passed over Sargent's slender figure. He lowered his right hand from the position of defence, and placing it beside the other, rested heavily against the table. A sensation of utter weariness crept over him. He could not recall having felt so exhausted ever before. It was the first time that he had used the full force of his magnetism, of which until that day he had been in ignorance. For a second, overcome by the new fatigue, he wondered if his power would last. The first signal of the confession was held in the drooping lids of the prisoner. Could he bring the rest?

Once more he took up the thread of his speech. Phelps met his gaze no longer, even the crouching position of one ready to spring relaxed, and he sank back into his chair and gazed steadily at his hands. Sargent leaned forward in his intensity, his words coming more rapidly. He was now dwelling on the laws of his country, on the need of these laws, of the rights of man which must be recognized and obeyed, of the Christianity of civilization, and of the punishment of God. His voice grew steadily louder as he urged the murderer to repent before he should reach the great tribunal of God, where repentance would be too late.

Still he could gain no answer from the man's downcast eyes. Within him a voice grew louder and more insistent. He felt the words leaving him in a stream of compelling force. Louder and louder, in the dead silence of the room they grew into thunderbolts that seemed to shake the building. On and on he went, a great light glowing from the depths of his eyes, until by the compelling force of his invectives, the irresistible power of his magnetism, the prisoner sprang from his chair and faced him.

For an instant they stood with only the table separating them, the accused man towering above the lawyer in a spasm of rage. Then, sweeping over his coarsened features came an expression of utter despair and misery, his eyes grew lustreless and dead, and drawing from his shirt a concealed dirk, he threw it from him and lowered his face upon his outstretched hands.

No word was spoken, but so completely did the agony of the man's face express his confession, that a shiver ran over the audience.

In the silence which followed Sargent stood with folded arms, amid the naked passions of the courtroom. A few minutes later, when he realized that they were still waiting for him to speak, he turned towards the jury and said slowly:

"Gentlemen, there is the murderer. Do with him as your conscience tells you."

He thought it was several hours afterwards, when in fact it was only ten minutes, that he became aware of his surroundings. He had sunk on the bench after addressing the jury, and before him had begun to swim all the fancies employed in his speech, and in a futile attempt to gather and separate them, as he had done before, he found himself tumbling from a great height, which his fast ebbing vital force made irresistible.

Then suddenly, in the midst of the turbulence, he felt the encouraging warmth of a friend's hand, and looking up, saw Judge Houston's broad back passing on towards the jury room.

Jacob Phelps lay forward on the table, his face buried in his outstretched hands. Beyond him stood Jervais, facing the hushed courtroom, with a countenance livid with fury.

Turning to see the cause of such an expression, Sargent looked for the first time into the sea of faces, pale and still, yet gazing at him with glowing eyes that told him their admiration and wonder. He understood their silence, and thrilled under the depths of feeling that kept them speechless. In that moment he knew that the commencement of his career was a triumph.

And while he stood with every nerve in his body tingling responsively to his blind joy, the jury re-entered the room and took their seats, and Judge Houston's voice rang out loud and sonorous.

"Jacob Phelps! Stand up!"

Phelps lifted his bowed head, his eyes roving furtively over the crowd of staring faces. Moving slightly, with the expression of one who is dazed into semi-consciousness, he stared back into the sea of faces—not one expression of kindness, of sympathy, of friendship for him was in that entire throng. Then, with the dull look of one who has relinquished all hope, he wheeled and faced the judge.

"Jacob Phelps, you have been judged, and convicted of murder—the highest crime known to the laws of the State of Mississippi. Have you anything to say, or any reason to give why the sentence of the law should not be pronounced upon you?"

In the breathless stillness there came a pause. Phelps did not answer. Again the judge's voice filled the courtroom.

"Then nothing now remains but the performance of my painful duty. The sentence of the law and the judgment of the Court is that you be taken hence to the jail of Adams County, and there safely confined until Thursday, the twentieth day of June, 1833, when between the hours of ten o'clock in the morning and noon, you be taken into the jail yard; and there, by the Sheriff of this County, you be hanged by the neck until you are dead—and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul!"

CHAPTER VI

TO BE HANGED BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD

"Everett, you're a wonder, man." "Pick him up there, Suggs." "Now, all at once! Lift him up!" "Now, all together, we'll sing, 'See the conquering hero comes!'" "Where are we going? Oh, to the Mansion House, of course. I'm going to set 'em up until everybody has his fill." "Never heard a speech until I heard Everett's to-day."

Before he knew what had happened, Sargent had been surrounded as he came out of the courtroom, and hoisted to the shoulders of an admiring crowd that was waiting for him.

The people had gone wild in their enthusiasm over what he had done for them. On that day he found himself a public man, at the mercy of the whims of the public, and their whim at that moment was to find an outlet for their admiration.

They took his cane away from him, some one grabbed his broad felt hat and replaced it with a chimney pot that was not unbecoming by any means, and then they carried him on their shoulders to the bar of the Mansion House, and placing him on the counter, made him listen to their speeches of congratulations while the waiters plied every one present with more drinks than any one's capacity admitted.

Captain Mentdrop gave an eloquent peroration, in which he stated that he was the first one to introduce the Honourable Sargent Everett to the townspeople, who from thenceforth would give only honour and praise to his name. He would have continued interminably if it had not been that others were as anxious to claim that honour as the Captain. And for two hours the speech-making and jollification lasted, until every one grew hilarious over the motion that Sargent be sent as their representative to the next Legislature.

When the excitement had reached its height, and a crowd had gone out on the street to erect a bonfire—no matter if it were broad daylight—Sargent saw his chance to get away and slipped quietly out the back door of the tavern into a deserted street.

Walking as rapidly as his halting gait would permit, he traversed the streets where he would hardly meet any one, and came at last to the bluff that looked down over the river. Pushing his way through a tangle of undergrowth, he reached a place far enough from the town to be secure from interruption. Here he threw himself full length upon the ground, breathing hard from the unusual physical exertion. He was utterly exhausted, and covering his eyes with his hands he lay perfectly motionless.

When he looked up again a scarlet sun was sinking into the banks of dull grey clouds, and illumining weirdly the scene of river and distant flat country.

Ah! it was a relief to get away from the crowd of gaping faces, even if they spoke praise and admiration. And beyond that, he was glad that the courthouse, with all the associations which had in one moment become horrible to him, could not be seen from where he sat.

For a long time he remained perfectly still, gazing out upon the scene before him, seeing in it only dreariness and despair accentuated by the encroaching shadows; and all the time, as if to keep out some haunting sound, he pressed both hands over his ears.

And the change had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Only a little while before, flushed with the pride of his first success, the blood surging happily through his veins, he had waited with the others for the verdict, and as the words rang out across the hushed courtroom, "To be hanged by the neck until you are dead!" they fell upon his overstrained nerves like an electric shock. Something within him snapped, and in the next moment he found himself looking into the miserable, hopeless eyes of the prisoner as they led him from the room.

After that Sargent felt the buoyancy and joy and triumph slip completely away from him. He was aware of nothing but the sound of those words, he heard them whispered over the courtroom, he heard them in the congratulations of his friends, he heard nothing else during the speech-making at the tavern, and now he knew that they had followed him to his retreat on the bluff, for he saw them written in lurid letters across the scarlet sunset.

At first in the chaotic whirling of his thoughts, he could not comprehend the strange effect upon him; he could see no reason for the sinister obsession. He had gotten what he had been concentrating all his energies upon for the past week. Why should the outcome overwhelm him in this unlooked for manner! He puzzled over it, attempting to separate the last expression of the prisoner's face and the meaning of the words. They were too analogous to bear separation, and gradually, gaining force with its development, came to Sargent the terrifying realization that without him the sentence would not have been pronounced. A kindred thought followed—more fearful than the first—in which he saw himself the murderer, not the prisoner who had committed the deed to escape detection, but he, a lawyer under the sanction of the laws of God and man committing the same deed in the name of justice and righteousness. And so the world would think of him; but how different he knew it was. Righteousness and justice had not once entered his thoughts; only hatred and revenge. Hatred and revenge! He had said them aloud to himself at night, to keep them from slipping out of his mind for even one second. And now he was to be paid for this deed with money, blood-money, as the prisoner had been rewarded with the same.

Where was the difference? Was not each a taking of life? Was not any man whose life was taken by another, murdered? Could there be any need in the world great enough to abrogate that command of God's—"Thou shalt not kill!"

He rose from the ground, and walked recklessly on into the woods that crowned the bluff. The sunset was gone now, and only a misty twilight hung through the vista of trees. A refreshing breeze from the north brushed against his flushed face and brought a tingle to his feverish senses. With the exhilaration came an added sharpness to his perceptions.

Argue as he would, he could not make himself realize that it was an ethical view of the case that he was taking. He saw himself at the outset of his career, with this man's blood upon his hands, and instinctively, with the insight that comes in a crisis of revulsion, he knew that no matter how long he lived, he would never be able to approve of capital punishment. The personal application was what riveted the chains of his conviction. The simple statement that without his speech the prisoner would have been free, answered eloquently all doubts and questions. It was he alone, who was to bring this man to death; it was useless to evade the responsibility.

"To be hanged by the neck until you are dead."

In a moment of terrifying excitement he spoke the words aloud, to gain a better effect of their significance, and with the sound of his own voice, the words received a more intimate meaning. Deeper under their weight he sank, until it was by a supreme effort that he checked himself in his mad striding, and turned back toward the town. There was some one there, who could surely show him a new aspect of the case, in which he could realize that the responsibility did not rest upon him alone. A new thought, a suggestion, a word of sympathetic understanding would mean so much to him—but all that praise, that enthusiastic admiration so lavishly bestowed upon him because he had made a speech that would rob a man of his life! He could not bear to think of hearing it again.

When he descended the hill the lights were glowing from the many windows of the town, as if a reflection of the star-lit night. There were not many doors open, for the spring night had suddenly grown cool, and the barred portals seemed to Sargent to look down upon him with an aloofness and withdrawal that expressed the attitude of the thinking world toward him. If it were not the sentiment of that day, it would be when people came to know and to judge him from the hidden motives.