Through the dark the train came with a stuttering roar. I turned to shake hands with Peters, but he had stepped from the platform to hold his horse.

"Good-bye," he shouted. "This horse has seen the train every day since he was born, but he'll run away if I don't hold him. But it runs in his family to be afraid of the railroad. His brother was killed by a train. Wish you well, and if you ever come this way again, stop off."

He was a skinflint and a rascal, but he had shortened a dreary day, and at parting I regretted that I had not told him of my acquaintance with his kinsman in the South.

With a change of cars, at daylight, I could reach Memphis late in the afternoon, in time to continue my journey by boat to Bolanyo. I lay back, with my hat pulled down over my face, and strove to compose myself to sleep, and I dozed, but awoke at the solemn words of a judge, rumbling with the rhythm of the train. Sometimes I argued that I was a fool to trust myself to the humor of an excitable people; but soon I discovered that this speculation was forced, that my mind refused to treat it seriously, that my hope stood, not at the bar, under the protection of the law, but in the Senator's garden. And from this height, in the redolent air, I could not force myself down to muse upon a long season in a cell, waiting for the court to convene.

Daylight came. I got off at a station, to step on board another train. I counted my money and found that I might have enough, upon reaching Memphis, to buy a suit of cheap clothes. But the most strenuous denial must be practiced; I could not afford food nor even a newspaper.

It was nearly four o'clock when the train arrived at Memphis. I hastened to the landing and learned that a boat would leave within half an hour and that fifty cents would secure a deck passage to Bolanyo. I was fitted out by a riverside clothier, and, after a quick "snack" of fish on a houseboat, I stepped on board the steamer that had brought the Senator and me with "Magnolia Land" up the river. I stood at the bow, and my heart leaped at the sight of the first green tinge in the woods. How soft and delicious was the atmosphere, after the raw wind of the prairies and the lake. How gently the sun went down, without a shiver, without a breath too cool.

I saw the lights of Bolanyo. And I felt about for something to touch—something to brace me against the surging of an overpowering emotion. I tried to picture the jail; I strove to recall the yell of the mob, the awful night, the tread of merciless feet; but I saw a blossom nodding in the sweet air; I heard a voice that filled my soul with trembling melody.

The boat touched the shore, and I leaped upon the landing, before the plank could be thrown out. And now a caution was necessary. To be recognized meant a night in jail, perhaps another mob, and it was my plan to go by lonely ways to the Senator's house and to surrender myself to him. In my haste I was almost breathless. I passed the lonely lamp-post and the thicket; I stood at the gate. I opened it without noise, and, with my heart bounding, I stole up the steps, raised the door-knocker and let it fall; and with the noise, the breaking of the metrical throb of the silence, I sprung aside, almost choking. Someone came slowly down the hall and fumbled at the lock. Would the door ever be opened? It was, and Washington stood before me.

"Ah!" he cried, seizing me in his arms.

"Come right in yere, Sah, Lawd bless yo' life. Let me hep you. Laws er massy, de man kai hardly walk. Yes, Sah, right yere in de libery."

He lifted me in his mighty arms, carried me into the library and eased me down upon a chair. "Now, Sah—Sir—let us try to be cool; let us be strong with the love of the Lord in our hearts."

He snatched up a hat and stood over me, fanning my face. "Yes, let us thank our heavenly father."

"Where are they—she?" I asked.

"You must be cool, Mr. Belford. Your excitement might—might be bad for you all. The Senator is out somewhere and so is Miss Florence. But you shall see them soon. Just quiet yourself down."

"I must see them—him at once, to surrender myself."

"Surrender yourself? What for, Mr. Belford?"

"Washington, don't force me to say it. You know. I have come back to give myself up, to stand my trial."

He ceased his fanning, stepped back and looked at me. "Mr. Belford, haven't you seen the papers?"

"I have seen nothing. I have come to give myself up."

The hat fell from his hand. "Mr. Belford, you must prepare yourself to hear something. Let me be slow so that it may not excite you."

"Out with it. I can stand anything."

"Yes, Sir, but I must remember my failing, my father's rude tongue. But I will try to tell you in a civilized way. Once I told you of a woman I loved—now do not be impatient. You must wait, and if you are not cool you shall not see anyone. The husband of this woman was a sinner, and his wife kept urging him to join my church. One night not long ago, moved by the spirit, I talked to the hearts of men, and he was stricken with conviction. And the next day he came to me. He said that he was in the thicket and heard a pistol fire, and that not long afterward he came upon Estell's body with a pistol lying beside it. He looked about. No one was in sight. He thrust his hand into the dead man's pocket and drew out a pocketbook and some papers. Then he took up the pistol, but was afraid to touch the watch, knowing that it would be death to be found with it. Just then he thought he heard someone coming and he ran away, with the pocketbook, the papers and the pistol. And one of the papers was a statement written by Estell. He confessed that he had engaged in wild speculations, and that he was two hundred thousand dollars short in his account with the State. He spoke of the commission which would be appointed to go through his books, and said that he could not face the disgrace—that death was his only recourse. It has all come out in the newspapers, and the men who would have hanged you are willing now to make the most gracious amends. They talk about you constantly, and they come every day to ask if we have had any news of you. Why, yesterday a town meeting was held and our ablest speakers blew the horn of your praise."

"Where is she?" I demanded.

"She is out at present. Just be calm, and when the time comes you shall see her. The Senator went North to see the play. She went with him, and she hasn't been strong since; she was weak enough before. The Senator wrote to the man who has the play, some time ago, and told him that he would be held severely responsible for any mention of you in relation to the murder as it was then thought. And the editor? He sent a retraction to his paper; he acknowledged that he was a liar, and the Senator has let him come back to settle up his affairs."

"Did she—did she grieve?"

"Her life since then has been one of deepest grief, Mr. Belford, but not for him. And she sits in the garden every evening—waiting—and—and she is there now, Sir."

I leaped from the chair; I ran into the garden, calling her name—not Mrs. Estell—but "Florence! Florence!"

"Oh, who—who is calling me?" a voice cried, and I saw her clinging to a tree for support, near the bench where we had often sat. I ran to her, and the garden lamp light was in her eyes as she looked at me. I stood in silence, looking at her. I took her hand, and in silence we sat down. It was a long time before we spoke.

"Oh, that awful night!" she said, with her head bent low. "There was no one to help you, and when I heard the bell ring I seized a knife from the kitchen and threw a shawl over my head and ran down there to stab the man that tied the rope. I knocked the lantern over and I cut the cords—"

Half blind, I saw my tears gleaming in her hair. "And when you stepped out of the carriage the night of the play you thought your dress was caught. It was—I caught it to kiss it."

"Oh!" she cried—and that was all. We sat in silence, my tears gleaming in her hair. And we heard a voice and a step and we stood up. The Senator came, with his hand thrust forth, feeling as if he were blind. And on my shoulder he put his arm, and it was heavy. And "My—my boy," was all he could say—"My boy."

THIS BOOK HAS BEEN PRINTED
DURING MAY, 1897, BY THE
BLAKELY PRINTING COMPANY,
CHICAGO, FOR WAY & WILLIAMS.