After that my admiration for Nick Temple increased greatly, whether excited by his courage and presence of mind, or his ability to imitate men and women and creatures, I know not. One of our amusements, I recall, was to go to the Congo's cabin to see him fall on his face, until Mr. Mason put a stop to it. The clergyman let us know that we were encouraging idolatry, and he himself took the chief in hand.

Another incident comes to me from those bygone days. The fear of negro insurrections at the neighboring plantations being temporarily lulled, the gentry began to pluck up courage for their usual amusements. There were to be races at some place a distance away, and Nick was determined to go. Had he not determined that I should go, all would have been well. The evening before he came upon his mother in the garden. Strange to say, she was in a gracious mood and alone.

“Come and kiss me, Nick,” she said. “Now, what do you want?”

“I want to go to the races,” he said.

“You have your pony. You can follow the coach.”

“David is to ride the pony,” said Nick, generously. “May I go in the coach?”

“No,” she said, “there is no room for you.”

Nicholas flared up. “Harry Riddle is going in the coach. I don't see why you can't take me sometimes. You like him better than me.”

The lady flushed very red. “How dare you, Nick!” she cried angrily. “What has Mr. Mason been putting into your head?”

“Nothing,” said Nick, quite as angrily. “Any one can see that you like Harry. And I will ride in the coach.”

“You'll not,” said his mother.

I had heard nothing of this. The next morning he led out his pony from the stables for me to ride, and insisted. And, supposing he was to go in the coach, I put foot in the stirrup. The little beast would scarce stand still for me to mount.

“You'll not need the whip with her,” said Nick, and led her around by the side of the house, in view of the portico, and stood there at her bridle. Presently, with a great noise and clatter of hoofs, the coach rounded the drive, the powdered negro coachman pulling up the four horses with much ceremony at the door. It was a wondrous great vehicle, the bright colors of its body flashing in the morning light. I had examined it more than once, and with awe, in the coach-house. It had glass windows and a lion on a blue shield on the door, and within it was all salmon silk, save the painted design on the ceiling. Great leather straps held up this house on wheels, to take the jolts of the road. And behind it was a platform. That morning two young negroes with flowing blue coats stood on it. They leaped to the ground when the coach stopped, and stood each side of the door, waiting for my lady to enter.

She came down the steps, laughing, with Mr. Riddle, who was in his riding clothes, for he was to race that day. He handed her in, and got in after her. The coachman cracked his whip, the coach creaked off down the drive, I in the trees one side waiting for them to pass, and wondering what Nick was to do. He had let go my bridle, folded his whip in his hand, and with a shout of “Come on, Davy,” he ran for the coach, which was going slowly, caught hold of the footman's platform, and pulled himself up.

What possessed the footman I know not. Perchance fear of his mistress was greater than fear of his young master; but he took the lad by the shoulders—gently, to be sure—and pushed him into the road, where he fell and rolled over. I guessed what would happen. Picking himself up, Nick was at the man like a hurricane, seizing him swiftly by the leg. The negro fell upon the platform, clutching wildly, where he lay in a sheer fright, shrieking for mercy, his cries rivalled by those of the lady within. The coachman frantically pulled his horses to a stand, the other footman jumped off, and Mr. Harry Riddle came flying out of the coach door, to behold Nicholas beating the negro with his riding-whip.

“You young devil,” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily, striding forward, “what are you doing?”

“Keep off, Harry,” said Nicholas. “I am teaching this nigger that he is not to lay hands on his betters.” With that he gave the boy one more cut, and turned from him contemptuously.

“What is it, Harry?” came in a shrill voice from within the coach.

“It's Nick's pranks,” said Mr. Riddle, grinning in spite of his anger; “he's ruined one of your footmen. You little scoundrel,” cried Mr. Riddle, advancing again, “you've frightened your mother nearly to a swoon.”

“Serves her right,” said Nick.

“What!” cried Mr. Riddle. “Come down from there instantly.”

Nick raised his whip. It was not that that stopped Mr. Riddle, but a sign about the lad's nostrils.

“Harry Riddle,” said the boy, “if it weren't for you, I'd be riding in this coach to-day with my mother. I don't want to ride with her, but I will go to the races. If you try to take me down, I'll do my best to kill you,” and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.

Mrs. Temple's beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the door.

“For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us. We're late enough as it is.”

Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke into a laugh instead. “Come down, Satan,” says he. “God help the woman you love and the man you fight.”

And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach. The footman picked himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering way for the race-course, I following.

I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous dress of those who watched. There had been many, many more in former years, so I heard people say. This was the only sign that a war was in progress,—the scanty number of gentry present,—for all save the indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall it dimly, as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,—a rare contrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay but a while before. Yet so runs the world,—strife at one man's home, and peace and contentment at his neighbor's; sorrow here, and rejoicing not a league away.

Master Nicholas played one prank that evening that was near to costing dear. My lady Temple made up a party for Temple Bow at the course, two other coaches to come and some gentlemen riding. As Nick and I were running through the paddock we came suddenly upon Mr. Harry Riddle and a stout, swarthy gentleman standing together. The stout gentleman was counting out big gold pieces in his hand and giving them to Mr. Riddle.

“Lucky dog!” said the stout gentleman; “you'll ride back with her, and you've won all I've got.” And he dug Mr. Riddle in the ribs.

“You'll have it again when we play to-night, Darnley,” answered Mr. Riddle, crossly. “And as for the seat in the coach, you are welcome to it. That firebrand of a lad is on the front seat.”

“D—n the lad,” said the stout gentleman. “I'll take it, and you can ride my horse. He'll—he'll carry you, I reckon.” His voice had a way of cracking into a mellow laugh.

At that Mr. Riddle went off in a towering bad humor, and afterwards I heard him cursing the stout gentleman's black groom as he mounted his great horse. And then he cursed the horse as it reared and plunged, while the stout gentleman stood at the coach door, cackling at his discomfiture. The gentleman did ride home with Mrs. Temple, Nick going into another coach. I afterwards discovered that the gentleman had bribed him with a guinea. And Mr. Riddle more than once came near running down my pony on his big charger, and he swore at me roundly, too.

That night there was a gay supper party in the big dining room at Temple Bow. Nick and I looked on from the gallery window. It was a pretty sight. The long mahogany board reflecting the yellow flames of the candles, and spread with bright silver and shining dishes loaded with dainties, the gentlemen and ladies in brilliant dress, the hurrying servants,—all were of a new and strange world to me. And presently, after the ladies were gone, the gentlemen tossed off their wine and roared over their jokes, and followed into the drawing-room. This I noticed, that only Mr. Harry Riddle sat silent and morose, and that he had drunk more than the others.

“Come, Davy,” said Nick to me, “let's go and watch them again.”

“But how?” I asked, for the drawing-room windows were up some distance from the ground, and there was no gallery on that side.

“I'll show you,” said he, running into the garden. After searching awhile in the dark, he found a ladder the gardener had left against a tree; after much straining, we carried the ladder to the house and set it up under one of the windows of the drawing-room. Then we both clambered cautiously to the top and looked in.

The company were at cards, silent, save for a low remark now and again. The little tables were ranged along by the windows, and it chanced that Mr. Harry Riddle sat so close to us that we could touch him. On his right sat Mr. Darnley, the stout gentleman, and in the other seats two ladies. Between Mr. Riddle and Mr. Darnley was a pile of silver and gold pieces. There was not room for two of us in comfort at the top of the ladder, so I gave place to Nick, and sat on a lower rung. Presently I saw him raise himself, reach in, and duck quickly.

“Feel that,” he whispered to me, chuckling and holding out his hand.

It was full of money.

“But that's stealing, Nick,” I said, frightened.

“Of course I'll give it back,” he whispered indignantly.

Instantly there came loud words and the scraping of chairs within the room, and a woman's scream. I heard Mr. Riddle's voice say thickly, amid the silence that followed:—

“Mr. Darnley, you're a d—d thief, sir.”

“You shall answer for this, when you are sober, sir,” said Mr. Darnley.

Then there came more scraping of chairs, all the company talking excitedly at once. Nick and I scrambled to the ground, and we did the very worst thing we could possibly have done,—we took the ladder away.

There was little sleep for me that night. I had first of all besought Nick to go up into the drawing-room and give the money back. But some strange obstinacy in him resisted.

“'Twill serve Harry well for what he did to-day,” said he.

My next thought was to find Mr. Mason, but he was gone up the river to visit a sick parishioner. I had seen enough of the world to know that gentlemen fought for less than what had occurred in the drawing-room that evening. And though I had neither love nor admiration for Mr. Riddle, and though the stout gentleman was no friend of mine, I cared not to see either of them killed for a prank. But Nick would not listen to me, and went to sleep in the midst of my urgings.

“Davy,” said he, pinching me, “do you know what you are?”

“No,” said I.

“You're a granny,” he said. And that was the last word I could get out of him. But I lay awake a long time, thinking. Breed had whiled away for me one hot morning in Charlestown with an account of the gentry and their doings, many of which he related in an awed whisper that I could not understand. They were wild doings indeed to me. But strangest of all seemed the duels, conducted with a decorum and ceremony as rigorous as the law.

“Did you ever see a duel, Breed?” I had asked.

“Yessah,” said Breed, dramatically, rolling the whites of his eyes.

“Where?”

“Whah? Down on de riveh bank at Temple Bow in de ea'ly mo'nin'! Dey mos' commonly fights at de dawn.”

Breed had also told me where he was in hiding at the time, and that was what troubled me. Try as I would, I could not remember. It had sounded like Clam Shell. That I recalled, and how Breed had looked out at the sword-play through the cracks of the closed shutters, agonized between fear of ghosts within and the drama without. At the first faint light that came into our window I awakened Nick.

“Listen,” I said; “do you know a place called Clam Shell?”

He turned over, but I punched him persistently until he sat up.

“What the deuce ails you, Davy?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Have you nightmare?”

“Do you know a place called Clam Shell, down on the river bank, Nick?”

“Why,” he replied, “you must be thinking of Cram's Hell.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an overseer. The niggers hated him, and he was killed in bed by a big black nigger chief from Africa. The niggers won't go near the place. They say it's haunted.”

“Get up,” said I; “we're going there now.”

Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes. “Is it a game?” he asked.

“Yes.” He was always ready for a game.

We climbed out of the window, and made our way in the mist through the long, wet grass, Nick leading. He took a path through a dark forest swamp, over logs that spanned the stagnant waters, and at length, just as the mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a tumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the river's bank.

“What's to do now?” said Nick.

“We must get into the house,” I answered. But I confess I didn't care for the looks of it.

Nick stared at me.

“Very good, Davy,” he said; “I'll follow where you go.”

It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not know. It has no special significance.

I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave way, disclosing the blackness inside. We started back involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and Nick at me. He was very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the respect we each held for the other's courage that neither dared flinch. And so I walked in, although it seemed as if my shirt was made of needle points and my hair stood on end. The crackings of the old floor were to me like the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly, we made our way into a farther room. It was like walking into the beyond.

“Is there a window here?” I asked Nick, my voice sounding like a shout.

“Yes, ahead of us.”

Groping for it, I suddenly received a shock that set me reeling. Human nature could stand no more. We both turned tail and ran out of the house as fast as we could, and stood in the wet grass, panting. Then shame came.

“Let's open the window first,” I suggested. So we walked around the house and pried the solid shutter from its fastenings. Then, gathering our courage, we went in again at the door. In the dim light let into the farther room we saw a four-poster bed, old and cheap, with ragged curtains. It was this that I had struck in my groping.

“The chief killed Cram there,” said Nick, in an awed voice, “in that bed. What do you want to do here, Davy?”

“Wait,” I said, though I had as little mind to wait as ever in my life. “Stand here by the window.”

We waited there. The mist rose. The sun peeped over the bank of dense green forest and spread rainbow colors on the still waters of the river. Now and again a fish broke, or a great bird swooped down and slit the surface. A far-off snatch of melody came to our ears,—the slaves were going to work. Nothing more. And little by little grave misgivings gnawed at my soul of the wisdom of coming to this place. Doubtless there were many other spots.

“Davy,” said Nick, at last, “I'm sorry I took that money. What are we here for?”

“Hush!” I whispered; “do you hear anything?”

I did, and distinctly. For I had been brought up in the forest.

“I hear voices,” he said presently, “coming this way.”

They were very clear to me by then. Emerging from the forest path were five gentlemen. The leader, more plainly dressed than the others, carried a leather case. Behind him was the stout figure of Mr. Darnley, his face solemn; and last of all came Mr. Harry Riddle, very pale, but cutting the tops of the long grass with a switch. Nick seized my arm.

“They are going to fight,” said he.

“Yes,” I replied, “and we are here to stop them, now.”

“No, not now,” he said, holding me still. “We'll have some more fun out of this yet.”

“Fun?” I echoed.

“Yes,” he said excitedly. “Leave it to me. I shan't let them fight.”

And that instant we changed generals, David giving place to Nicholas. Mr. Riddle retired with one gentleman to a side of the little patch of grass, and Mr. Darnley and a friend to another. The fifth gentleman took a position halfway between the two, and, opening the leather case, laid it down on the grass, where its contents glistened.

“That's Dr. Ball,” whispered Nick. And his voice shook with excitement.

Mr. Riddle stripped off his coat and waistcoat and ruffles, and his sword-belt, and Mr. Darnley did the same. Both gentlemen drew their swords and advanced to the middle of the lawn, and stood opposite one another, with flowing linen shirts open at the throat, and bared heads. They were indeed a contrast. Mr. Riddle, tall and white, with closed lips, glared at his opponent. Mr. Darnley cut a merrier figure,—rotund and flushed, with fat calves and short arms, though his countenance was sober enough. All at once the two were circling their swords in the air, and then Nick had flung open the shutter and leaped through the window, and was running and shouting towards the astonished gentlemen, all of whom wheeled to face him. He jingled as he ran.

“What in the devil's name now?” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily. “Here's this imp again.”

Nicholas stopped in front of him, and, thrusting his hand in his breeches pocket, fished out a handful of gold and silver, which he held out to the confounded Mr. Riddle.

“Harry,” said he, “here's something of yours I found last night.”

“You found?” echoed Mr. Riddle, in a strange voice, amidst a dead silence. “You found where?”

“On the table beside you.”

“And where the deuce were you?” Mr. Riddle demanded.

“In the window behind you,” said Nick, calmly.

This piece of information, to Mr. Riddle's plain discomfiture, was greeted with a roar of laughter, Mr. Darnley himself laughing loudest. Nor were these gentlemen satisfied with that. They crowded around Mr. Riddle and slapped him on the back, Mr. Darnley joining in with the rest. And presently Mr. Riddle flung away his sword, and laughed, too, giving his hand to Mr. Darnley.

At length Mr. Darnley turned to Nick, who had stood all this while behind them, unmoved.

“My friend,” said he, seriously, “such is your regard for human life, you will probably one day be a pirate or an outlaw. This time we've had a laugh. The next time somebody will be weeping. I wish I were your father.”

“I wish you were,” said Nick.

This took Mr. Darnley's breath. He glanced at the other gentlemen, who returned his look significantly. He laid his hand kindly on the lad's head.

“Nick,” said he, “I wish to God I were your father.”

After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast, Nick and I coming after them. Nick was silent until we reached the house.

“Davy,” said he, then, “how old are you?”

“Ten,” I answered. “How old did you believe me?”

“Eighty,” said he.

The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the little church to hear Mr. Mason preach. Nick and I sat in the high box pew of the family with Mrs. Temple, who paid not the least attention to the sermon. As for me, the rhythm of it held me in fascination. Mr. Mason had written it out and that afternoon read over this part of it to Nick. The quotation I recall, having since read it many times, and the gist of it was in this wise:—

“And he said unto him, ‘What thou wilt have thou wilt have, despite the sin of it. Blessed are the stolid, and thrice cursed he who hath imagination,—for that imagination shall devour him. And in thy life a sin shall be presented unto thee with a great longing. God, who is in heaven, gird thee for that struggle, my son, for it will surely come. That it may be said of you, ‘Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.’ Seven days shalt thou wrestle with thy soul; seven nights shall evil haunt thee, and how thou shalt come forth from that struggle no man may know.’”