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CALIFORNIA J 
 
A Modern Quixote 
 
 STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 S. C. McCAY 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 
 
COPYRIGHT 
 
 1893 
 MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 
 1893, 
 W. B. CONKEY COMPANY. 
 
 HTFT 
 
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 >VOtL- 
 
 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A typical spring morning in the South; 
 
 flower bed and blooming tree ablush with ex- 
 quisite color. Everywhere exuberance of 
 leaf and blossom on the old McNaughton 
 place. Summer, always glorious in this re- 
 gion of middle Georgia, is masking in the 
 splendor of her eternal youth, this once proud 
 homestead of a once proud family. 
 
 By peering through the arbor-vita^ hedge 
 which separates the "back yard" from the 
 front part of the grounds, a stranger would 
 view a characteristic scene worthy his notice. 
 It is washing-day, and if you have never seen 
 washing-day in the South, you will probably 
 be surprised to hear it spoken of as one of 
 the most picturesque scenes this country can 
 show. 
 
 In the shadow of a thick clump of mul- 
 7 
 
 808 
 
8 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 berry trees (not the fruit mulberry, but the 
 umbrageous fan-leaved shade tree) stands a 
 rustic bench supporting a number of huge 
 tubs, all of a subdued natural wood color 
 which harmonizes with the general effect of 
 the knotty old tree trunks against which they 
 are leaning. At a little distance from the 
 washing-stand, a black pot, of very gipsy- 
 like appearance, is standing upon its three 
 short, sturdy legs amid the crackling, flaming 
 sticks, constantly poked under it according 
 to Aunt Viney's directions. 
 
 "Washing-day," she says, "ain't nuthin' to 
 what it used ter wuz, on dis yere place. Why, 
 Lawd! chile, I 'members, when my ole mis- 
 sus wuz livin', it tuk nigh on ter a dozen hand 
 to keep it gwine on; why, Honey! it tuk me'n 
 Lucindy'n Altoony to battle de clo'es out 
 when dey wuz dun washed; Unc' Ben, you 
 'members how many niggers had to go for to 
 tote de wahter, an' all dc little onery wufless 
 pickaninnies on de place could'n do nuffin 
 'sides jes' to keep de pot bilin'." 
 
 The crimson-kerchiefed, white-turbaned 
 figure of old black Viney, as the reader per- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 9 
 
 ceives, is the presiding genius of the scene. 
 She and old "Unc' Ben" are the sole remain- 
 ing representatives of all that group of merry 
 darkies, young and old, who, in happier days, 
 made the old place ring with melody on wash- 
 ing-day. But alas! Aunt Viney cannot sing 
 to-day; she goes about her work with a heavy 
 heart. The old establishment of the Mc- 
 Naughtons, of which she considered herself 
 a chief pillar, is hastening to its fall. 
 
 Both Ben and Viney were born on this old 
 place, and considered themselves as much 
 fixtures as the ivy-covered stables, almost 
 untenanted now, or the sentinel poplars that 
 guarded the garden front ; but things had come 
 to pass during the last few years, here on the 
 old homestead, after which, anything, save 
 the deluge, would seem to them an impotent 
 conclusion. 
 
 Miss Laurie — or "Honey" as the two old 
 darkies called her — was the motherless daugh- 
 ter of their young mistress, who a few short 
 years ago, inherited on her marriage day the 
 flourishing Hargrave estate with all its belong- 
 ings. Willful as a young queen, Ruth Har- 
 
IO A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 grave had married Marshall McNaughton,then 
 a dashing young officer fresh from the horrors 
 of Indian battles, whose brilliancy, perhaps, 
 blinded the young girl to possible delinquen- 
 cies in her hero. Guardians and friends op- 
 posed the match bitterly; he was of obscure 
 family and had risen to prominence by sheer 
 personal bravery in the service. His educa- 
 tion was defective, but his manner charming. 
 Had her parents been alive, they would prob- 
 ably have prevented the marriage, but this 
 dainty rose-leaf of a woman had all the fire 
 of the South in her veins, and opposition 
 from those about her fanned her resolution 
 into a blaze. 
 
 She married him with great ceremony, and 
 installed her handsome husband as master of 
 the vast old estate, with all its acres and 
 slaves. Perhaps, but for one disastrous 
 event, the world would have been obliged 
 to confess itself at fault; for, whereas 
 it had predicted great misery from the 
 mesalliance, the early years of the married 
 life of the McNaughtons were an idyl of 
 happiness. When little Laurie was about 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE II 
 
 four years old, came talk of that tragical mis- 
 take, the "Mexican war." It appealed to the 
 military side of Marshall McNaughton's ad- 
 venturous spirit, which rose to the occasion, 
 and he was soon mounted and on the way, 
 with a body of well-equipped followers, to 
 the Rio Grande; his enthusiastic wife applaud- 
 ing his patriotism, and standing with her 
 little daughter by her side to wave him a 
 "good-bye." This was the fatal step; the life 
 of the camp and field was what his soul loved, 
 but it spoiled him forever for the higher life 
 of home. 
 
 With the best that was in him he did hom- 
 age to his beautiful wife, and under her influ- 
 ence he might still have been saved, but fort- 
 unately for the world's reputation for wis- 
 dom, and everlastingly unfortunate for him, 
 she died soon after his return, leaving her 
 little daughter to mock him with the lost 
 mother's face at every turn, and the world's 
 "I told you so" was vindicated. 
 
 It seemed as though while happiness might 
 have saved this weak, generous nature, sorrow 
 had wrecked it; old habits returned; early 
 
12 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 training asserted itself, and he went back to 
 the society of associates from whom the influ- 
 ence of his wife had alienated him for a time. 
 Notable among these was Hank Staples, a 
 common fellow, but a sort of boon com- 
 panion, who had been with McNaughton in 
 his Mexican campaign, and who was enabled, 
 by a mere chance, and without any great dar- 
 ing on his own part, to save the major's life 
 on one occasion when the young officer's mad 
 recklessness had placed it in jeopardy. This 
 was sufficient to win him a certain place in 
 the warm heart of his patron from which no 
 revelation of meanness, no ill-bred presump- 
 tion could dislodge him. Many people whis- 
 pered that if the unsuspecting major ever had 
 his eyes opened to a fact that was long ago 
 patent to every one else — namely, that Hank 
 Staples had presumed to fall in love with his 
 pretty daughter — there would be an explo- 
 sion of wrath, after which it would be diffi- 
 cult to find the remains of Mr. Staples. But, 
 strangely enough, he did not see it. He had 
 a tender, almost reverential regard for little 
 Laurie, but it was not able to save him from 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 3 
 
 his degrading excesses; and just strong enough 
 to drive him back to seek oblivion of his mis- 
 conduct when she looked at him with her 
 mother's eyes. And so, during the swift 
 years in which she was growing into a beauti- 
 ful womanhood, he had gone down the whole 
 scale — had sunk from the wealthy owner of a 
 fine old plantation and all its accessories, to 
 the possessor of a grand house with some fields 
 around it which he had not the means to cul- 
 tivate. Slaves, acres and horses had gone, 
 one by one, each new sale being followed by 
 a more prolonged orgy with Hank Staples 
 and his other friends. 
 
 Perhaps it was a certain loyalty to the 
 choice of the young mistress, perhaps it was 
 due to that empire over all hearts, which, in 
 all his downward career, Marshall McNaugh- 
 ton never lost — but something bound the two 
 old servants to the interests of the master 
 with an unquestioning devotion. 
 
 "It's Hank Staples and all dat trash what 
 am gwine to ruin my po' Mars'r," was the 
 only reasoning their true hearts would admit. 
 
 "Honey soon be a grow'd young lady, Sis' 
 
14 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 Viney. 'Pears like 'taint longer'n yestiddy, 
 her ma wuz runnin' 'round yere dis like her; 
 dey's jes' as much like one or nudder as two 
 black peas is, "mused Uncle Ben, leaning over 
 to knock the ashes out of his pipe; for just 
 then they caught sight of Laurie's pale pink 
 muslin through the bushes, as she ran in her 
 childish way down the garden path. 
 
 "Yes, tank Gawd!" responded Aunt Viney, 
 "her ma's dresses jes' fit her; an' dat yonder 
 pink muslin, what young miss use ter love, 
 kase de major, he say she look jes' like a little 
 chinquepin-rose in it, look jes' 'zactly same 
 on Honey, an' she ain't done nufnn to it cep'n 
 jes' put it on. Dat's de last one of 'em,Unc' 
 Ben," she went on with a dolorous sigh, "and 
 de Lawd know whar she gwine to git no 
 mor'." 
 
 She thought in silence for a minute, and 
 then added, "What's de use o' bein' purty if 
 you ain't got no clo'es?" 
 
 This was a poser which Uncle Ben's mas- 
 culine mind could not grapple with. He only 
 shook his head. 
 
 "Well," he said presently, "sumpin' got to 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 15 
 
 be done, Sis' Viney; Honey be a havin' bo's 
 arter while' n den she be a wantin' yearbobs 
 and a heap o' things what she aint nebber 
 been study'n 'bout befo'." 
 
 "Humph!" responded Aunt Viney scorn- 
 fully, "dat show what fools men-folks is; 
 Honey got mo' bo's now dan she kin shake 
 a stick at." 
 
 This was hyperbole; Laurie had only one 
 acknowledged beau at this time; but a woman 
 who wouldn't exaggerate a little on that 
 theme isn't half a woman. "Mas'r Walter 
 Marlowe dead in lub wid Honey 'n Honey lub 
 him too, but she don' know it yit." 
 
 "Bress de Lawd ! yer don' say so, Sis'Viney. 
 Mas'r Walter in lub wid our Honey! Yah! 
 Yah! our little Honey! Why, dey allers play 
 togedder since dey wuz little chillun — but 
 hold on! Sis' Viney, yo' femining min' don' 
 take in de sitiwation. How Dr. Marlowe's son 
 gwine to marry our Honey when de ole gem'- 
 man he kaint git 'long wid de major? Don' 
 you know Honey's pa ain't nebber been to 
 hear de doctor preach since young miss die, 
 and he kum over yere to kin' o' comfort us 
 
l6 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 like, an' den, mas'r he jump up outen his 
 cheer'n he 'lowed he did'n want ter hear no 
 sich nonsense; an' ef de Lawd did'n want 
 him to go to de debbil, what fer he take 'way 
 de only one what could save him? And den 
 he went outen de house an' kep' walkin' 'n 
 walkin', all day out in de fields, by hissef; 
 don' yer recollec' dat, Sis' Viney? An' so," 
 he went on, "I 'lows dat if de doctor is good 
 way down in his heart, he ain't gwine to be 
 willin' for his only son to mah'y de daughter 
 of a man what talks 'gin 'ligion. No, ole 
 'oman, I reckin you's out in yer kalklations 
 fur wunst." 
 
 "Shucks!" Aunt Viney ejaculated; "don' yer 
 know ef Mas'r Walter Marlowe want ter do 
 anyting he gwine ter do it; an' sides, de doc- 
 tor he tink powerful sight o' Honey; an' he 
 do anyting fer dat boy." 
 
 "Yes," consented Uncle Ben, "Mas'r Wal- 
 ter, he powerful fine young gem'man, but his 
 ma and all his folks'll be 'gin his mahy'in us 
 what ain't got no money. Why, dere ain't no 
 fambly in de county cep'n what'd be proud 
 to hab him fur dere daughters." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 17 
 
 "Now you's hit de nail on de head at las'," 
 assented the practical Viney; "dat's what I 
 'low to myself; Mas'r Walter's ma, she 
 powerful proud; 'deed she is." 
 
 At this point the dialogue was cut short by 
 the report of a rifle from the direction of the 
 river which was hidden from view by the thick 
 spring foliage, and towards which Laurie had 
 gone a few minutes before. 
 
 Without a word further than a profane ex- 
 clamation from Aunt Viney, both started in 
 the direction of the sound. Aunt Viney had 
 soon reached the bank and signaled that it 
 was all right. A beautiful white bird, called 
 by the negroes the "white heron," was beat- 
 ing his snowy wings in hopeless conflict with 
 the tide which bore him rapidly down the 
 stream. On the bank also, though some dis- 
 tance away, stood the tall, lithe figure of young 
 Marlowe concealed partly from view by the 
 thick bushes. He was busily engaged in ex- 
 amining the lock of his rifle and reloading it 
 for further use. Laurie, who had not seen 
 him, stood, wringing her hands in sympa- 
 thetic pain, as she watched the beautiful creat- 
 
28 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 ure float down the stream, with the death 
 wound in its breast. She had not dreamed 
 that any one was near (as it was a school- 
 day at the college of S — near by) until the 
 loud bang! made her look up from her ham- 
 mock too late to avert the tragedy. At a 
 sign from his master a large brown setter 
 sprang into the water, seized the huge bird, 
 now dead, in his mouth, and laid it at Lau- 
 rie's feet. The young fellow in the mean- 
 time, by a succession of leaps from rock to 
 rock, had also gained her side, and ground- 
 ing his rifle with one hand pulled off his cap 
 with the other. What a handsome face it 
 was! bright and smiling now, for he was sure 
 that he had pleased the capricious little lady. 
 
 "Look what I have shot for you, Laurie !" 
 pointing with his cap to the bird at her feet; 
 "you said you wanted a white wing to make 
 a fan for commencement and — " 
 
 "Oh! you bad boy; how could you do it?" 
 she exclaimed with a little sob, and refusing 
 his proffered hand. 
 
 "What! you don't want it? Well, by Jove! 
 ingratitude, thy first name is Laurie!" replied 
 the poor fellow crestfallen. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE ig 
 
 "G'way from dar! g'way from dar!" 
 screamed Aunt Viney from her position in the 
 bushes, as the dog was about taking the bird 
 in his mouth again. She ran to it, and, kneel- 
 ing down, spread the large white wings out 
 upon the ground. This was too much for 
 Laurie; she had long wanted just such a fan 
 as these beautiful wings would make; she 
 would not have had the peerless white thing 
 murdered for her for worlds, had she known 
 it; she had a tender little heart, that loved 
 every living thing of field or stream. She 
 looked down on the beautiful plumage; the 
 bird was dead, and the wings were so lovely; 
 she began to relent. 
 
 Walter saw his advantage, and, leaning his 
 rifle against a tree, knelt down also, and 
 helped Viney to display the trophy. "Now!" 
 he exclaimed, "cruel woman, how does that 
 strike you? Aren't they handsome?" She was 
 not angry now, but when he looked up at her 
 he was shocked to see that her eyes were full 
 of tears. "O Walter, I am so sorry you killed 
 it, but it was very kind of you to give it to 
 me; indeed I do thank you." 
 
20 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "Reck'n I'll jes' take it up to de house and 
 dry out de wings fur yer, Honey," remarked 
 the practical member of the party. 
 
 "Yes, you can go, we don't want you," said 
 Walter. "I will walk back with Laurie in time 
 for dinner." He and Viney had always been 
 the best of friends; she would let him say 
 anything to her. 
 
 "Nebber min', young man," she replied, as 
 she shouldered the huge bird and started to- 
 wards the house. "You's jes' de wustest boy 
 in dis yere town; you knows you is; if you 
 don' stop dem yere larks o' yourn, you ain't 
 nebber gwine to heb'n long side o' yo' pa." 
 
 They did not hear her "Yah! Yah!" after 
 she considered herself at a safe distance; 
 "Mas'r Walter de purtiest man I eber see. I 
 hope he gwine ter mah'y Honey'n take her up 
 to his big house, kase I don' know what 
 gwine ter kum o' her ef her pa keep goin' on 
 in dis yere awful way o' hisen;" which proves 
 that Aunt Viney was something of a woman 
 of the world in her way. Could she have 
 divined what took place after she left them, 
 she would have considered her brightest dream 
 realized. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Laurie must have forgiven the young fellow 
 for killing the bird, for they were strolling 
 along the romantic little river's brink in an 
 amicable way, the little flickers of shadow 
 and sunlight dancing upon them as they 
 walked. He had his gun over his shoulder 
 and the brown setter Carlo amused himself 
 by running, now before, now behind them, 
 but always keeping them in sight. 
 
 "What are you doing out of college to-day? 
 I did not expect to see you on Friday;" she 
 asked him, trying to look demure; but she 
 could not hide from this tall, handsome fellow, 
 as she looked up at him, that she was glad 
 to be surprised, and supremely happy to have 
 him there walking beside her, when so many 
 girls as pretty as she, and far more fortunate 
 in every other way, would have welcomed 
 him proudly. "O! you truant!" she went 
 on, while the happy smile danced in her eyes, 
 21 
 
22 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "I thought you were working for the valedic- 
 tory this year; you know too, how much we 
 all counted on you; have you given up?" 
 
 "Well; sit down here on this rock, and I 
 will tell you how it is," he said at last. She 
 seated herself with a little laugh of happiness, 
 and he chose a lower place, so that he sat at 
 her feet, for he wanted to see her face while 
 he told her. He looked so handsome as he 
 sat there, leaning towards her, in his eager 
 way, the morning sunlight shining in his face. 
 
 A brilliant face it was, with the clusters of 
 dark hair thrown back from the forehead, and 
 the gleam of snowy teeth and flashing eyes. 
 It was a beauty to which perfect health, per- 
 fect happiness, and a generous heart each 
 lent a share. There was one thing which a 
 friend of Walter Marlowe would have elimi- 
 nated from that face, but which, to the roman- 
 tic young girl beside him, was, perhaps, its 
 greatest charm; it was a certain look of reck- 
 lessness, born of an adventurous spirit and 
 excessive physical courage, which won cre- 
 dence for many tales of midnight escapade 
 connected with his college life. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 23 
 
 True, there had never been a hint of any- 
 thing dishonorable attached to his name, even 
 in his wildest frolics, but he was classed 
 among the wild fellows of the college. Per- 
 haps the town's people were more lenient in 
 their judgment of him than of the others, for 
 he had lived always in their midst and was 
 known to them all from childhood. . He had 
 evidently forgotten what he was going to 
 say; he sat looking into her face in such an 
 unusual way that for the first time in his pres- 
 ence, she felt her cheeks begin to tingle. 
 
 "Well," said she, pulling some little grasses 
 in a nervous way — "why don't you tell 
 me?" 
 
 "O! that's so — well, I was just going to 
 say that the honors were distributed this 
 morning, and a lucky fellow, whom you know, 
 has come in for the valedictory; so there isn't 
 anything more to do at the college this morn- 
 ing, and I thought I would take a stroll, and 
 see if I could find anything to shoot." 
 
 "O! Walter, I'm so glad!" cried Laurie, all 
 her self-consciousness gone now. "Kneel 
 down here and be crowned, sir." He dropped 
 
24 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 on one knee and she went through the panto- 
 mime of crowning him. 
 
 They were laughing and talking in that 
 happy , foolish way that marks so brief, so 
 fleeting an epoch of life; both were beautiful, 
 young, and in love. 
 
 "Have you thought of your valedictory 
 speech?" 
 
 "Oh ! yes," he said, "I have been rehearsing 
 it as I came along. I shall get through it all 
 right if there is one person in the audience." 
 
 "Rather a small audience otherwise," put 
 in Laurie. 
 
 "And if it pleases her, I don't care for the 
 rest," he went on, scorning to notice the in- 
 terruption. "Do you know who that is?" 
 
 "How should I know?" returning to her 
 grasses again. 
 
 "She will be the prettiest girl in the house, 
 and she will carry a white wing for a fan." 
 
 "Oh! did you have that speech rehearsed 
 too?" 
 
 "Of course, and engaged the heron to come 
 here and be shot. But, Laurie, there is some- 
 thing else on my mind this morning a great 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 2$ 
 
 deal more important than that. Come, let 
 us walk on to that spot further down where 
 it is so shady and cool, and I will tell you 
 about it." 
 
 Viney thought they looked very handsome 
 and very happy, an hour or two later, when 
 she looked up from her work and saw him 
 leave her at the garden gate, and stop again 
 when he was almost out of sight, to blow a 
 kiss to her from his finger tips. Laurie stood 
 still and watched him until she could no 
 longer get a glimpse of his figure, and then, 
 all in a minute, down came a flutter of pink 
 muslin among the husks of the corn Aunt 
 Viney was preparing for dinner; two little 
 white arms were around her neck, and her 
 darling's love story was sobbed out in happy 
 tears upon her faithful old bosom. 
 
 "Oh! mammy! Walter loves me; he loves- 
 me more than anybody else in all the world! 
 He told me so, and I am going to marry him 
 on commencement day. Oh, mammy dear, 
 I am so happy! I love him so much." 
 
 The old nurse had taken her darling into 
 her arms, and patted her gently, as she used 
 
2t) A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 to do to hush her infant crying. She was, 
 herself, too full to speak, for a moment. 
 This was the dream of her life; Honey would 
 be happy and rich. She leant over, still hold- 
 ing Laurie in her arms, and picked up the 
 straw hat that had fallen on the ground and 
 smoothed out the ribbons with a loving 
 touch. Then she tried to raise the dear face 
 from her shoulder. The girl was still crying 
 softly, for very joy, but even these happy 
 tears pained the tender old heart. 
 
 "Why, what make you cry so, Honey? Ef 
 you's happy, you ought to be laughin'. I's 
 powerful glad you's gwine to mah'y Mas'r 
 Walter; you'll hab lots o' purty dresses, an' 
 breas'pins to war' ebbery Sunday, an' ole 
 Viney'll set up in de gal'ry an* watch you 
 sittin' in de Marlowe's pew. Yo' pa he 
 comin' home to his dinner purty soon an' he 
 mustn't find his baby cryin' nohow. You 
 jes' run 'long while I gits de dinner ready and 
 bresh out yer ha'r, an' tell him all 'bout it, 
 when he comes; I spec' he be powerful 
 proud." 
 
 But the major did not return to dinner that 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 2J 
 
 day; supper time came — the early supper 
 time of the country houses — and as he was 
 still away, they took the simple meal with- 
 out him. It was not unusual for him to re- 
 main in town until late in the evening. 
 
 Laurie went to her little chamber all white 
 and flower-scented, as such a maiden's room 
 should be, but she did not go to sleep as 
 usual; she sat down on the side of her snow- 
 white cot in the fair twilight of the spring, 
 her dark, glorious hair falling about her, and 
 dreamed her waking dream, more sweet than 
 sleep could give. While sitting there she was 
 aroused from her reverie by her father's foot- 
 step sounding in the room below. It was, 
 still, quite early in the evening and her 
 thoughts would not let her sleep. 
 
 She threw around her a wrapper of some 
 soft, white material and stole quietly down- 
 stairs again. She paused at the dining-room 
 where the major always loved to take his 
 pipe in the evening. Uncle Ben had brought 
 in the candles and wheeled the master's 
 leather arm-chair to its accustomed place by 
 the hearthstone; for the nights were still a 
 
28 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 little chilly, though the spring was well ad- 
 vanced. His pipe and a decanter of brandy 
 stood on a small table at his elbow. He had 
 poured out a glass, but scarcely tasted it. 
 There was a haggard expression on his hand- 
 some, dissipated face quite new to Laurie. 
 
 He lit the pipe, and looked around once or 
 twice, as though in search of something or 
 some one; presently the fire died out of it, 
 and he laid it down upon the table unfinished. 
 What was the matter with the pipe to-night? 
 What was the matter with the brandy? 
 
 She must have known what it was he 
 missed; for presently her arms were about 
 him and a warm, rosy cheek was laid against 
 his. "Is that you, Honey?" he asked laugh- 
 ing; and reaching up an arm he pulled her 
 down into his lap. 
 
 "Come here and sit on your old daddy's 
 knee, and tell him what you've been doing 
 all day." 
 
 Laurie passionately loved her father; to 
 blame him was to lose her favor entirely, and 
 as a great many did blame him very severely, 
 she kept aloof from a great many houses 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 29 
 
 where she would have been welcomed for her 
 mother's sake, but where she knew that her 
 father was not liked. 
 
 To sit on his knee, and get her arm around 
 his neck was easy enough; she was used to 
 that; but to tell him all that had happened 
 that day was not so easy. She looked into 
 the fire for a moment and began running her 
 hands through his hair. "Walter was here 
 this morning, papa," she began; managing so 
 that he 'could not see her face. 
 
 "Well — that's no news, tell me somethin' 
 else." 
 
 "Well, he's got the valedictory, papa, and 
 he gave me a beautiful wing — for a fan, and 
 he wants me to go to commencement- — papa 
 — and hear him speak." 
 
 "Well, Honey, you are goin' ain't you? 
 Walter's a fine young fellow; I'm glad he's 
 got it." 
 
 "Yes, papa, but if I go, you must get me a 
 new white dress." 
 
 "Well, I'll see about it, pet, I'll see." 
 
 "But, papa, I must have it soon, for mammy 
 and I must make it before commencement." 
 
30 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "Well you shall have it, baby; you shall 
 have it." 
 
 "But, papa—" 
 
 "Why, what ails my pet ? Is there somethin' 
 else you're wantin' ? Speak out, Honey, your 
 old daddy'll do anything to make you happy. 
 There won't be no girl there that'll hold a 
 candle to my Laurie, I'll bet. That'll be a 
 great day for you, when your friend gits the 
 first prize, eh? You always did bet on Wal- 
 ter, didn't you, Honey?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, it will be the greatest day of all 
 my life, for it will be my wedding-day. That 
 pretty white dress will be my wedding-dress — 
 for Walter loves me, oh! so dearly, and 
 asked me to marry him on that day. You 
 won't say no, dear daddy? I love him so! I 
 love him so!" 
 
 The arms went closer about his neck, and 
 the rosy face was pressed hard against his 
 shoulder. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Aunt Viney was right when she opined that 
 "Mas'r Walter's ma" would be the stumbling 
 block. While her husband loved this son, as 
 the dearest gift of providence, she idolized 
 him, but still she worshiped him in her own 
 proud way. Though her will in all great 
 crises bent before the stern strength of purpose 
 in her husband's character, still she was a 
 woman of strong opinions, strong feelings and 
 prejudices. Walter was her only living child, 
 and would inherit through her an independent 
 fortune. She saw that he was handsome, in- 
 telligent and spirited, and built boundless 
 hopes upon his future; consequently, his mar- 
 riage would be a matter of supreme moment 
 with her. She believed in love matches, for 
 her own had been one. Had she not taken 
 her own course when the young preacher 
 wooed her in his manly way, showing towards 
 her the tenderness of his steadfast spirit, so 
 
 31 
 
32 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 stern in self-denial, so impervious to all other 
 weakness? What did it matter that he had 
 renounced fortune and lucrative occupations 
 for his high calling? She revered his sublime 
 unworldliness but never dreamed of reaching 
 the level of it herself; she could not have 
 said truthfully that she desired it. And this 
 woman looked proudly on her manly son, so 
 like herself, and yet was blind enough to 
 think that she could mold his will to hers, and 
 tell him where to love. 
 
 She was proud of his popularity, proud of 
 his scholastic honors, and the old name he 
 bore, and what more natural than that he 
 should make a brilliant marriage? But with 
 all this deep love between mother and son, 
 there was a shade of habitual reserve, im- 
 parted, perhaps, from her own nature to his, 
 which barred out many little confidences that 
 might have aroused her from this dream of 
 security. 
 
 In the meantime he ran his college course, 
 much as any of his young acquaintance. 
 
 She laughingly told a friend one day, that 
 she was glad to say her boy "had not thought 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 33 
 
 about the girls yet." She was sure that when 
 he entered society in earnest he would select 
 some aristocratic girl for his wife, who would 
 reflect credit on his taste and family. And so 
 the fond mother built her palace of cards, sit- 
 ting in her darkened, flower-scented chamber 
 this spring day, while Walter and Laurie told 
 their story to each other by the vine-shaded 
 river-path. 
 
 Mrs. Marlowe had never quite forgiven Ruth 
 Hargrave for marrying so far out of her sta- 
 tion, but they had been good friends in their 
 young days, and the survivor felt always a 
 kindly interest in Ruth's little daughter; but 
 the major, with his loud voice and terrible 
 grammar, was a trying ordeal for the fastid- 
 ious woman to endure for an hour. Laurie, 
 morbidly sensitive where this dear old father 
 of hers was concerned, divined this feeling 
 and gradually ceased making her visits there. 
 
 Walter thought he knew the tender secret 
 of her absence. The old doctor often looked 
 over his spectacles and asked why she never 
 came, but the mother said nothing. She was 
 far indeed from suspecting a present danger, 
 
34 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 but it was part of her plan that the intimacy 
 between her son and the major's daughter 
 should not survive his boyhood; and she felt 
 that fate was playing into her hand. She 
 thanked her good star, and kept silent, for 
 she dreaded, as she dreaded nothing else, the 
 stern reproach that would gather in her hus- 
 band's eyes when the expression of such a 
 feeling would sometimes escape her. 
 
 Walter came to her this day, a happy smile 
 illumining the beauty of his face, and there 
 was great tenderness in the way this tall boy 
 bent down and kissed her on the forehead. 
 He sat down beside her, took both her hands 
 in his and told her his heart's story; told her, 
 in his own eloquent way, how he loved the 
 beautiful girl with all the strength of his nat- 
 ure, and that he could never be happy with- 
 out her. "I meant to tell you this, mother," 
 he went on, "before I spoke to her; but I saw 
 in her pretty eyes this morning how glad she 
 was of my success; she looked so sweet in her 
 enthusiasm about it, that almost before I 
 knew it I told her all." 
 
 This was true, he had meant to tell her, 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 35 
 
 but put it off, as one will an unpleasant task, 
 as long as possible. He had expected oppo- 
 sition at first, for he knew the nature of his 
 mother's plan for him; but he was not pre- 
 pared for the look of anger that gathered in 
 her eyes as she heard him. She withdrew 
 her hands from his clasp, for the first time in 
 his life, and folded them firmly in her lap, 
 while she listened in silence. 
 
 Then he saw how foolish had been his hope 
 that she would put by her ambitious dreams, 
 when she saw how deeply his happiness was 
 centered in Laurie. He saw, before she poke, 
 that he would never, by all his pleading or all 
 her love for him, be able to win her from her 
 enmity against his marriage with Marshall 
 McNaughton's daughter. He felt the chill 
 of her disapproval, and his eager enthusiasm 
 vanished; he resented it for Laurie's sake. 
 
 He paused and looked at her a moment full 
 in the eyes; each saw the determination of 
 the other — how like they were at that mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "Go on;' 7 she spoke for the first time; her 
 face was pale with suppressed anger. 
 
36 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 He straightened himself in his chair, and in 
 an altered tone told her curtly and in a few 
 words that his choice was unchangeable; that 
 he had hoped she would consider his happi- 
 ness sufficiently to lay aside any prejudice she 
 might have in the matter, and receive the 
 motherless girl kindly; but, that, anyhow, 
 his troth was plighted to Laurie and his hap- 
 piness as well as his honor depended upon 
 his keeping it — at any cost. 
 
 "You have disappointed me bitterly," was 
 all she said as she gathered her sewing to- 
 gether and left the room. Such an ending to 
 such a day! He knew what it meant; his 
 father would be on his side, and she would 
 submit to the inevitable and receive his wife, 
 —he knew that; but it would be with that im- 
 mutable protest in her heart and in her man- 
 ner; and how could he bring that tender- 
 hearted child to such a home? 
 
 He went out of the house with a bitter re- 
 sentment in his heart against his mother; she 
 who had been so indulgent to his every whim, 
 and so devoted to his interest always, now in 
 this first great need had failed him. The re- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 37 
 
 action from his joy of the morning was horri- 
 ble. 
 
 After an hour's aimless wandering in the 
 woods he came to a decision. As his anger 
 began to cool he reflected that he had not 
 been very considerate, perhaps; the revelation 
 had surprised her; he would make one more 
 earnest effort to reconcile her, and induce her 
 to receive LaUrie kindly. 
 
 But it was as he thought; his father listened 
 gravely to his story, and said that if he truly 
 loved the girl, and she loved him, it was right 
 in the sight of God, that he should marry her; 
 but, though the mother said nothing further 
 in protest, and even went to see Laurie and 
 conformed to all the conventionalities of ap- 
 proval, Walter knew that in her heart she was 
 embittered against his choice, and would not 
 forgive the girl who had won her son from her. 
 He determined that Laurie should not know 
 of this, if it was in his power to prevent it; 
 and trusted to fate. 
 
 It was not hard for him to hide anything 
 from Laurie. Walter loved her; that was 
 enough and she was too happy to question 
 
38 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 anything. And as for the major, that any 
 man should win his little girl was in his eyes 
 a thing to be thankful for; it never occurred 
 to him that there was anything that one could 
 object to in that. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 If Marshall McNaughton had succeeded in 
 blinding himself to the progress he had made 
 on the downward road in C — during the past 
 few years, his eyes were opened the morning 
 after Laurie's revelation when he rode into 
 town and proceeded to purchase the white 
 dress he had promised. 
 
 His loving heart was vacillating between 
 sympathy w r ith her great happiness, and grief 
 at losing her. Memories of her young mother 
 were mingled with his thoughts of Laurie; 
 and as he rode along the familiar road, with 
 slackened rein, tears from the purest spring 
 in the nature of this anomaly of a man, rose 
 to his eyes and blotted the well-known land- 
 scape from his sight. 
 
 Old "Senora," the mare, took her head with 
 
 an eas}' pace and brought up at "Hartley's," 
 
 as the place containing the best bar-room 
 
 was called. To do the major credit, he had 
 39 
 
40 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 not intended to stop there this morning, but 
 his thoughts were far away in other days, and 
 so long as Senora had stopped, expecting her 
 noonday siesta and her customary meal at the 
 racks before the Hartley stables, he thought 
 he would just step in and have a word with 
 the convivial fellows sure to be gathered there. 
 
 He was not disappointed in his expectation 
 of finding several boon companions of his for- 
 mer revels lounging idly about the place. Mar- 
 shall McNaughton was a man of magnificent 
 presence, more than six feet high, and though 
 he bore the marks of years of dissipation in 
 many ways upon him, still wore a command- 
 ing air, and created a sensation always when 
 he entered a room. His heavy locks, consid- 
 erably frosted with silver, framed a face still 
 handsome and engaging. 
 
 He paused at the doorway, as magnificent 
 a figure of a man as ever walked to ruin under 
 its portal. The graceful sweep of a large felt 
 sombrero shaded his face; and he held a heavy 
 riding whip (merely from habit) in his hand; 
 had a lash of one-half the weight been laid 
 upon Senora in his sight, it would have 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 41 
 
 brought a quick and terrible reckoning with 
 her master. He loved many men, hated a 
 few, but his devotion to his daughter and his 
 horse was this man's religion. 
 
 All rose and gave him the seat of honor. 
 The clink of glasses went merrily round 
 again, and after not "a few," but many drinks 
 he told himself he was better able to execute 
 the delicate commission for which he had 
 come to town. 
 
 He did not remember that it had been quite 
 a while since he had attempted to make a 
 purchase in C — outside of "Hartley's," and 
 the unstinted liberality of the proprietor there 
 could have been read between the lines of 
 numerous notes of hand which were piled up 
 in the money drawer with the major's signa- 
 ture upon them. Some said that it was a 
 thing that might happen whenever it so 
 pleased this complacent creditor, for his old 
 house and all its belongings to be put up and 
 sold at auction any day before his eyes. 
 
 The story had already become known to 
 the small commercial world of C — , and when 
 he entered the principal store of the town, 
 
42 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 and in an off-hand way ordered the hand- 
 somest and most expensive articles that could 
 be bought— little Laurie should have the best; 
 why not? — he was ignominiously refused them, 
 unless he could pay for them on the spot. 
 
 To be refused credit in the South, in a town 
 where you have lived, is an insult, deep and 
 degrading. It came upon this man like light- 
 ning from the blue sky; it showed him with 
 terrible vividness many things that he had 
 been vaguely conscious of but had never 
 forced himself to look upon before. He stag- 
 gered beneath the blow. He repeated the 
 effort in several other stores in the town, with 
 like results; and, as the summer evening was 
 closing in, he mounted Senora and turned 
 towards home, cut to the heart, both by the 
 indignity he had suffered and his failure to 
 keep his promise to Laurie. 
 
 It was not yet quite sunset, and he could 
 reach home before dark. He thought of how 
 she would be watching for him, and speed 
 down the aveune to meet him, when she 
 fancied she heard the old mare's hoofs ap- 
 proaching; she would always put her little 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 43 
 
 foot on top of his in the stirrup and bring her 
 lithe young body up to his level with a single 
 spring; then, with her arms about him, give 
 him a welcoming kiss. 
 
 He had always felt here was one being in 
 the world in whose sight he held the place 
 of honor. But his eyes were opened now and 
 his thoughts were bitter against himself as 
 he rode homeward in the light of the closing 
 day. He had meant to do so well by little 
 Laurie, and what had he done ? The veil had 
 been ruthlessly torn from his conduct, and he 
 had to face some hard questions which his 
 conscience was putting to him as he returned 
 from his fruitless errand, a ruined man — he 
 saw it at last, broken in spirit and crushed in 
 self-respect. 
 
 "Yes," he accused himself — "I have spent 
 her fortune, and humiliated her all these years 
 in the eyes of C — . In the first important 
 crisis of her life, I have not been able to make 
 the most necessary provision for her;" and, for 
 the first time, he felt to-day that her loving 
 greeting would pain him; he could not bear 
 to meet her with this feeling so strong upon 
 
44 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 him; he halted abruptly in the road, and 
 turned the mare's head in another direction; 
 he made an errand of some kind in the neigh- 
 borhood that would keep him until he sup- 
 posed she would be safely in bed. 
 
 But that was unnecessary; for the first time 
 his little girl had not been watching for him; 
 she had at last found thoughts which he did 
 not share. 
 
 He would not see her to-night ; he would 
 put it off till to-morrow, at least; it would 
 be easier then. He lingered until the even- 
 ing was far spent, and the household asleep, 
 and then entered his house crushed and dis- 
 spirited. 
 
 The question of the dress was not broached 
 the next morning; Laurie had thought he 
 would bring it, and felt just a little shade of 
 disappointment, but she was too happy to 
 worry about it this morning; Walter was com- 
 ing to take her for a horseback ride, and her 
 eyes sparkled with anticipation, when she ran 
 into the breakfast room and gave him his 
 morning kiss. 
 
 She seated herself opposite him with a little 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 45 
 
 air, very new and very womanly, and poured 
 out his coffee; but she soon began to chatter 
 away in her old childish manner, and it was 
 some time before she noticed that he was 
 making but a very poor pretense of eating; 
 she noticed that his face was pale and haggard 
 and had a depressed look altogether new to 
 her. 
 
 She dropped her knife and fork in an instant 
 and was at his side. "Oh! papa, dear, what 
 makes you look so white and miserable?" the 
 quick tears coming into her big dark eyes; "I 
 have been happy all this time while you have 
 been in trouble — I am a cruel, selfish thing! 
 Dear me" — this sotto voce — "I reckon I have 
 been too happy; I was afraid I was;" then, 
 after a moment, "but I won't do it any more 
 — no, indeed." He could not bear this; he 
 rose abruptly and walked to the window; she 
 stood irresolute for a moment not knowing 
 whether to cry or not — then followed him. 
 He had his face turned from her; he could 
 not bear, with this new sense of humiliation 
 upon him, to look at her. Her loving trust in 
 him was now a reproach that touched him 
 to the quick. 
 
46 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 She pressed her cheek against his sleeve 
 and waited; still he could not look at her, 
 and tell her how low he had fallen in the eyes 
 of his fellow men. He hoped sHe would not 
 ask him about the wedding-gown until he 
 could think of some expedient by which he 
 could raise sufficient money to buy it. He 
 tried hard to think of something to say to 
 her, and could not. 
 
 "Dear daddy, are you angry with me?" 
 came in little sobbing tones at last. This was 
 too much — in a moment he had told her all; 
 how he had tried, and failed, to keep his 
 promise to her; cursing his own folly in that 
 he had failed to do a father's part by her. 
 
 Then the smile shone through the tears, — 
 was that all ? She put her hands lovingly upon 
 his lips, and would not let him upbraid him- 
 self. She charmed away the evil spirit in 
 him, and even now, true to his mercurial 
 nature, the crisis being past, his spirits began 
 to rebound; and he ended this extraordinary- 
 interview by saying : 
 
 "But don't you spoil your pretty eyes acryin' 
 'bout it, pet; we'll have a bonny weddin' yet." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 47 
 
 To make her smile, that was his aim always, 
 and he managed to assume something of his 
 old manner. "Who's that yonder?" he said, 
 taking her face beween his hands and turning 
 it toward the avenue — "canterin' up the road 
 leadin' t'other black horse? Wonder who he's 
 after?" His simulated cheerfulness imposed 
 upon her, and she went off comforted, but 
 he found the problem of ways and means 
 harder than any he had ever undertaken be- 
 fore. He paced the walk until the morning 
 sun was near its noon, and still he saw no 
 way out of his dilemma. 
 
 Happily, however, another council was in 
 secret session on the same subject, and it was 
 more successful in coming to a verdict. 
 
 Aunt Viney was scraping potatoes at a high 
 shelf just outside the kitchen door, and Uncle 
 Ben, in his position of maid of all work, to 
 which he had descended by slow degrees, was 
 scouring knives on a flat rock which served 
 for a doorstep. 
 
 " 'Pears to me, Sis' Viney, de major's got 
 sumpin in his mind lately," he remarked. "I 
 ain't h'yearn him swar more'n wunst or twicet 
 
48 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 since he came from town yistiddy; an' I 'low 
 to myself he's takin' on kase Honey be 
 gwine away befo' long." 
 
 "Humph! chile; he got heap o' 'tings 'sides 
 dat on his min'. I tell yer, he feel powerful 
 bad kase he ain't got no land nor niggers nor 
 nuffin to give her, de day what she gits mar' d, 
 like all white folks does — all de folks what's 
 quality. Honey, she don' kere nuffin 'bout it, 
 kase she ain't nebber been nowhar 'mong 
 udder gals; 'n Mas'r Walter, it don' make no 
 diffunce to him; he say, 'Nebber min', sweet- 
 heart, all mine's gwine ter be yo's purty 
 soon;' an' he don' let on how bad his ma feel 
 'bout it. I tell yer Mis' Marlowe's powerful 
 proud — 'deed she is!" 
 
 Uncle Ben finished his knives and, setting 
 himself down in the kitchen door in the sun, 
 fell into a deep study. After sitting silently 
 for some time, he cleared his throat several 
 times and finally said: 
 
 "Sis' Viney!" 
 
 "Humph?" To understand this responsive 
 interrogation, one must have heard it. 
 
 "'Pears to me Mars' Marsh he need some 
 money powerful bad." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 49 
 
 "I spec' he do, Unc' Ben; but I don' know 
 whar he's gwine to git none at." Silence 
 again for a few minutes, then in the same 
 tone — 
 
 "Sis' Viney." 
 
 "I hear yer, Unc' Ben;" she knew what he 
 was going to say; it had been in her thoughts 
 all day, too. 
 
 "Don' it 'pear to you like 'taint correspond- 
 in' like to hab niggers, when he so poor, till 
 he caint buy no weddin' clo'es fur Honey?" 
 
 "It cert'ny do 'pear kin' o' onsuitable,Unc' 
 Ben." 
 
 "Jes' me an' you; dat's all dat's lef, ole 
 '©man." 
 
 "I know it, Unc' Ben." 
 
 "Well, which one it gwine ter be, Sis'Viney 
 — you or me?" 
 
 "It's in de Lawd's han' I reckon, Unc' Ben," 
 was her only reply to this. She was so busy 
 about the fire that he could not get a glimpse 
 of her face. 
 
 "Well, I bin stud'n 'bout it powerful heap to- 
 day," continued the old man, "an' I 'lows its 
 jes' like dis; we mus'n'tsay nuffin' 'tall 'bout 
 
50 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 it to Honey; fur ef she knows what wuz gwine 
 on, she take on so, till she jus' break her 
 heart, and ourn too; but we's jis' got to 'cide 
 'tween ourse'ves which one us got to go, and 
 den we'll lay de case befo' de major. He'll 
 cuss de nigger blue what 'poses it, fur he ain't 
 gwine ter like de idee; but I tink, fur Honey's 
 sake, he do mos' anyting; an' ef we's got to 
 be sol', mought jes' as well be now, when de 
 money do Honey some good, as fur to wait 
 fur de sheriff, and you knows dat gwine ter 
 happen fo' long." 
 
 This was hard sense, Aunt Viney had to 
 admit, but how was she going to talk about 
 any scheme that might separate her from her 
 baby? The wisdom of the plan had been 
 patent to her mind a long time, but as to 
 which of them it should be, that could be 
 seen at a glance, she thought; how could any- 
 thing go on about the place, and most of all, 
 what would Laurie do without her? She put 
 the case thus before her "feller sarvint," but 
 it seemed he had entrenched himself behind 
 an argument equally as powerful. 
 
 "Well, it 'pears kin' o' dis way ter me," he 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 51 
 
 said; "when Honey go to lib wid de Marlowes 
 she hab a whole passel o' niggers to wait on 
 her; but ef ole Ben go 'way who gwine ter 
 stay wid mas'r? an' what's gwine to cum o* 
 Snorer? Any fool nigger — cep'n me — what 
 cum nigh her she kick 'emhigher'n a kite sho 
 nuff; an' who gwine ter go 'long and bring 
 mas'r home safe o' nights when he stay in 
 town late?" 
 
 So they talked and talked, the matter get- 
 ting farther and farther from a settlement, un- 
 til at last it was decided to appeal to chance, 
 the god which in his heart every darkey holds 
 in superstitious awe but thinks may sometimes 
 be propitiated; and accordingly an old bat- 
 tered "seb'n-pence" was fished up from Uncle 
 Ben's trousers' pocket where he had long 
 carried it for luck, and they prepared to toss 
 for it, 
 
 Aunt Viney demurred again; the coin that 
 was supposed to have brought luck to its owner 
 so long would certainly do so again and she 
 demanded fair play. This was settled, how- 
 ever, by his allowing her to choose sides, a 
 privilege also supposed to bring fortune; and 
 
52 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 unconscious of the sublimity of their act they 
 prepared to invoke the irrevocable fiat, for 
 neither would have dreamed of appealing 
 from the verdict. 
 
 Uncle Ben solemnly turned the worn bit 
 of silver over and over in his hand and scru- 
 tinized it on both sides; it was invested with 
 a new interest — it was to decide his fate. 
 
 With bated breath they stepped out on the 
 little plateau under the mulberries where the 
 grass had been worn away by the faithful feet 
 of these two old servants, and Uncle Ben began 
 to choose his ground; Aunt Viney looking on in 
 awed silence. The stake for which they 
 played was a few more years of toil and pri- 
 vation on the dear old place, where every 
 homely object was a shrine at which their 
 fond hearts worshiped; and the privilege of 
 spending their allotted years in the service of 
 those for whose sake they would even go, if it 
 should be their lot, uncomplaining. Aunt 
 Viney had chosen "heads." By tacit consent 
 both stood silent and gazed at the familiar 
 scene where their lives had been spent, taking 
 in every detail with its associations of more 
 than half a century. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 53 
 
 Down there on the old swamp road Uncle 
 Ben had taught "Honey" and Honey's mother 
 to ride on horseback. Over here went the 
 path by which he had led the old Senora to 
 water night and morning for so many years. 
 Over there to the west lay the fields where 
 he had labored in the cotton rows side by side 
 with Tuny of the lustrous eyes. Ah ! those old 
 days when cotton was king! Then the nights 
 when the moon was full, and the dance before 
 the cabin doors — for Tuny with the yellow 
 skin and speaking eyes was belle of the quar- 
 ters, — poor old Tuny, dead and buried long 
 ago. 
 
 Aunt Viney looked longest towards the spot 
 where a willow stood sentinel over some 
 quiet graves. There lay the young "Miss," 
 the idol of her life, where they had laid her 
 down before the dark days came. Like a 
 white thread over the green hill ran the track 
 her feet had made as she led her darling's little 
 daughter, night and morning, to her mother's 
 grave. Then she could see the little path 
 branch off towards another enclosure, almost 
 invisible now to the dim old eyes, where the 
 
54 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 faithful servants of the family rested from 
 their toils and some of her own little picka- 
 ninnies slept their long sleep. It was their 
 world, their all, how could they leave it? 
 
 The sun sank below the hills. The curtain 
 was down upon the closing act, and the last 
 of the actors must disperse. With a sigh that 
 was almost a moan they came back to the 
 present. The old man proceeded to toss. 
 
 "Now she's gwine!" he said in an excited 
 whisper, and up went the coin, flashing an 
 instant; down it came again through the 
 leaves overhead, and lay upon the ground a 
 few feet from them. They looked into each 
 others' faces a moment while their hearts 
 stood still with fear, then knelt down to read 
 their fate. 
 
 The worn outline of head lay uppermost. 
 
 Without a word, the old fellow picked up 
 the coin and put it in his pocket and taking 
 his old straw hat from the ground, turned 
 and walked away towards the stables. 
 
 " 'Fore Gawd!" was Aunt Viney's only re- 
 mark, as she remained stupefied, on her 
 knees, and looked after his retreating figure. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE $$ 
 
 The bitter tears shed by that fond old heart 
 as he hid his face in the mare's silky mane 
 and clasped his arms around her neck, none 
 but "Snorer" knew, and she could never tell. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 The major received the old darkey's propo- 
 sition much as Uncle Ben had expected; nor 
 was the ultimate result other than that he had 
 foreseen. Here was another blow to that 
 pride to which until two days ago the master 
 had held so firmly. This man had known for 
 a long time that he was giving ground, though 
 he had parried the strokes of his enemy, cir- 
 cumstances, desperately, and refused to ad- 
 mit to himself that he was being beaten; 
 but now, by a little turn of the blade, he was 
 disarmed, and after his experience in town 
 that day he had no heart to resist longer. 
 
 He listened to the old negro's words; and 
 low as it made him seem in his own sight, 
 this proposition, which a week ago he would 
 have scorned, showed him an outlet from the 
 wall of difficulties that seemed closing around 
 him; and swearing at first that he would never 
 listen, he surrendered to it at last. 
 56 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 57 
 
 This thought of selling the old negro, who 
 was part of the inheritance left to Laurie by 
 her mother, lowered him more in his own 
 eyes than any act of his erratic life which 
 had made it necessary; and yet the motive 
 which actuated him in it arose from the 
 purest instinct of his nature — his passionate 
 love for his little daughter. What imperfect, 
 what unjust judges of ourselves we are, after 
 all! 
 
 It was a hard task to bring himself to con- 
 sent to this, the only available means that 
 he could see for raising even the small 
 sum of money necessary to provide for his 
 Laurie's wedding, but when it was decided, 
 it gave him some little feeling of pleasure to 
 think she would not be humiliated, anyway. 
 She should have the prettiest white dress in 
 the town, and what was one more pang of 
 self-reproach, one more bitter memory added 
 to his long account, compared to the mortifi- 
 cation and disappointment he had felt was in 
 store for her? After all he thanked God it was 
 old Ben's thought not his; and he took a 
 drink of brandy twice the usual size. 
 
$8 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 To keep up appearances for the little one's 
 Sake until she was honorably married, that 
 M r as all he asked; beyond that, with a sort of 
 *atal premonition, he would not look. 
 
 He made himself no idle promise of refor- 
 mation in his ways; he knew he would not 
 change for the better now. There was a reck- 
 lessness added to his former hilarity, which 
 no one, perhaps, but the two old darkies, no- 
 ticed; who were thankful when they saw it 
 that their darling was provided for. 
 
 Thus the drama swept on to its denouement 
 with its deep under-currents of love, duty, 
 sacrifice, bearing on to its destination the 
 little rose-colored sail that carried Laurie 
 "and her fortune." The girl, in the mean- 
 time, pure, and loving even to the old trees 
 under which she had played, lived uncon- 
 scious of the dark shape that waited on her 
 footsteps. Walter loved her — that was enough. 
 
 She had quite made up her mind that she 
 did not want the new dress; she had been 
 selfish, she told herself, to distress poor 
 "daddy" about it. There was still a remnant 
 of old finery in a chest in the attic which 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 59 
 
 would do very well; Aunt Viney and she 
 would rip off the lace, and with its help re- 
 adorn the remains of some fabric which had 
 seen previous service. What did it matter? 
 Had not Walter said it made no difference? 
 It had been no new thing for her father to 
 promise her the most preposterous things in 
 all good faith and forget the circumstance 
 entirely; she hoped it would be so now, and 
 seeing his embarrassments, resolved to say 
 nothing more about the matter. 
 
 On the other hand, he avoided the topic 
 religiously and trembled for fear she should 
 suspect the plot between old Ben and himself, 
 and in her loving, impulsive way put an end 
 to it. 
 
 She had risen early one morning and, en- 
 sconced in her favorite position, was working 
 industriously on a sketch which had occupied 
 much of her time of late when Walter was 
 not by; it was a sketch of this spot so dear 
 to the lovers' hearts, and she intended it as a 
 parting gift to her father. Through unfore- 
 seen events the work was never completed and 
 the world has missed the opportunity of pass- 
 
60 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 ing on its merits. It was supposed by many 
 to be a representation of an Arctic explorer's 
 fleet under full sail 
 
 But what did it matter? Nature was in its 
 springtide on the earth, and in her heart, 
 what did she want from art? Leave that great 
 consoler for the dear faded old mam'selle for 
 whom youth, beauty and love, are over. 
 How could she work on such a morning with 
 all the glad sights and sounds of summer 
 claiming her eyes and ears? It was indeed a 
 rarely beautiful spot, this trysting place; the 
 water there was clearer and the shade more 
 dense and cool than in any other place in all 
 the world, they thought; and to one of them 
 afterwards, in great misery, the scene came 
 out on the dark ground of the present with 
 heart-breaking vividness. 
 
 Gradually the charm of the scene began to 
 work upon her, the book slid from her lap 
 and the old reverie took empire in her thought 
 again. 
 
 There was just one little canker spot in the 
 flower of her great joy; she suspected that 
 Walter had some trouble upon his mind, but 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 6 1 
 
 she had not been able to fathom it; he had 
 come to her looking pale and anxious some- 
 times of late, but always laughed her questions 
 away. He could not bear that she should 
 know the state of his mother's feeling towards 
 her. He had wounded her in her most sensi- 
 tive spot, her ambition for him. It was a 
 source of great pain to Marlowe, for he loved 
 this handsome, stately mother with a deep 
 devotion. 
 
 Poor little Laurie had never felt comfortable 
 in his mother's presence and instinctively 
 shrank from the ceremonious visits of the elder 
 woman; it was not hard therefore to deceive 
 her in the matter and when Walter told her 
 that he wished the engagement kept secret 
 for awhile, and the wedding to be a private 
 one, she thought it was out of consideration 
 for her own circumstances, and gratefully ac- 
 quiesced. He felt now that he had been pre- 
 cipitate in asking her to marry him on his 
 graduation day; he should have won his 
 mother first. 
 
 He loved Laurie too dearly, however, to 
 risk wounding her by a suggestion of delay. 
 
62 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 In the meantime, he guarded the affair from 
 the knowledge of his classmates, who knew 
 that he had always been friends with the 
 major's pretty daughter but suspected noth- 
 ing more. As for Laurie — a Southern girl 
 teeps her love secrets well. He clung still 
 lo a gossamer thread of hope that his mother 
 Would consent to receive his wife kindly. He 
 knew that she was prejudiced ; that she visited 
 the sins of the father upon the child; and 
 there were moments when he fought against 
 a dull feeling, almost of hatred of this man 
 who had dragged his daughter from the posi- 
 tion that should have been hers, and thus 
 stood between him and his perfect happiness. 
 It was this feeling that clouded his brow 
 sometimes when he saw how tenderly devoted 
 she was to the old father; but he could not 
 breathe a word of it to her; she would have 
 resented it deeply, he knew. 
 
 And thus the days passed on until Mar- 
 lowe's graduation was but a few weeks off. 
 The major had kissed his daughter more fondly 
 than ever that morning, and started to town 
 as usual; but when his foot was in the stirrup, 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 6 J 
 
 he stopped, and turning to her again patted 
 her on the head, and taking her under the 
 chin in a playful way, raised her face to his 
 and looked long and lovingly into her eyes. 
 Yes, it was a beautiful face, all dimpled with 
 smiles now, for she was happy. Her father 
 seemed more like his old self this morning, his 
 depression seemed banished by magic. 
 
 True, he had not done his duty by his daugh- 
 ter, as the world said, this self-indulgent, easy- 
 going man; he had squandered the fortune 
 which should have been hers, but he was mak- 
 ing for her sake to-day a sacrifice of his pride, 
 and he alone knew what it cost him. To vol- 
 untarily sell an old negro long resident on the 
 place, was an act which brought much hard 
 criticism generally on the master. 
 
 He mounted, and old Senora was soon out 
 ©f sight for she could travel well still. He 
 turned at the last bend in the road and waved 
 his hand to her; she watched him out of sight. 
 In the last glimpse she had of him, he was 
 Looking back at her again. With all his delin- 
 quencies toward her, Laurie knew that her 
 father had loved her well. It was this knowl- 
 
64 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 edge that made her troubles, when they came, 
 so much harder to bear. It was Saturday, 
 and she knew Walter would come soon; her 
 mind was full of little rose-colored plans for 
 the future. 
 
 Presently she saw, first the dog, then the 
 master, coming toward the rendezvous. That 
 was the way he always came, sometimes with 
 a Virgil sticking out of his pocket, sometimes 
 with a gun over his shoulder, according to 
 which proved at the time the best excuse for 
 his ramble. 
 
 Walter proposed a picnic and a gipsy fire 
 under the trees, and all went merrily until he 
 innocently remarked that it was a sort of ir- 
 regular sale-day in the town and as his father 
 had gone in early, and his mother was visit- 
 ing friends some miles away, he was free to 
 spend his day with her. He was bent down 
 in a comical effort to blow some sticks into a 
 blaze. Struck by her sudden silence, he 
 looked up at her, fanning the air wildly with 
 his hat to get the smoke from before his eyes. 
 She was standing pale and motionless; an 
 agony of fear had seized her heart. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 65 
 
 He sprang up in an instant and put his arm 
 around her. "What is it, darling?" he asked 
 anxiously. The look on her face alarmed him; 
 she looked at him with an expression he had 
 never seen on her face before. "Oh, Walter," 
 she said solemnly, earnestly, laying one hand 
 upon his arm, "I would not speak of this to 
 any one but you; you have just reminded me 
 that this is a sale-day in town, and I know 
 my poor father will meet those terrible men 
 who make him drink. It frightens me so, to 
 think of his coming home late at night alone 
 when he has been drinking. I have no one 
 to go to but you — dear Walter, won't you go 
 and stand by him and bring him home 
 safely for my sake? Sometimes I have been 
 able to keep him at home on these terrible 
 sale-days, but I was so happy this time I 
 did not remember and now I have let him 
 go." 
 
 Here the great eyes filled with tears, and 
 she clung to him pitifully. She looked so 
 beautiful, so pure and sweet in her distress 
 for this erring father, that all that was finest, 
 all that was best, in this generous, but far 
 5 
 
66 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 from perfect young man arose to meet her 
 
 trust and fulfill it. 
 
 "I will go, dear," he said softly, drawing 
 his arms closer about her; "but don't cry, 
 Laurie; I can't bear that, indeed I can't." 
 
 "But oh, Walter, won't you go now, this 
 moment? He is so good and yielding, they will 
 make him drink again, I know it." 
 
 "I will go at once," he answered her proudly, 
 a bright light flashing from his eyes, "and I 
 will convince him that I am his friend for 
 your sake, and one to whom he can entrust 
 you. Don't worry about it any more, dear, 
 for I am going to be your protector now. 
 Look up, Laurie" — for she had hidden her 
 face in shame and sorrow on his shoulder — 
 "and smile at me, and say you trust me." She 
 did smile — a little tremulous smile through 
 her tears — and he folded her to his heart and 
 kissed her passionately again and again. She 
 had never seemed so dear to him as now, 
 when she appealed to him for help. 
 
 "And now, darling, that is better," he said 
 after a little, for he knew that to do any good 
 he must be gone. "I'll be the oak and yoa 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 67 
 
 be the k/y> eh? Never fear; I will be with 
 him, and it will be all right." 
 
 "Oh, Walter, if you will be his friend, I 
 will never doubt that you love me." 
 
 "Then farewell, my lady fair, I go to do 
 thy bidding," he said laughing, and dropped 
 upon one knee kissing her hand to carry out 
 his knight errant part. She was looking quite 
 content again, and smiled upon him. Walter 
 was so strong and manly — 'Walter loved her 
 so truly! what had she to fear now? 
 
 "But don't you go anywhere, nor speak to 
 any one else, nor do anything all day, but 
 think about me, or I'll consider myself 
 cheated," he called back to her. "Remember 
 I only leave you to look after your father — 
 our father, I mean." What would he not mean 
 to please her? 
 
 "Leave Carlo to keep me company then," 
 she said; "he often comes and spends the 
 whole day with me when you are away — don't 
 you, Carlo?" The dog, who was running from 
 one to the other in doubt which way his duty 
 lay, wagged his tail in complete acquiescence 
 of anything, he did not care what. 
 
68 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "All right," said Walter, looking at Carlo 
 and waving his hand slightly toward Laurie; 
 meaning that she was in his charge until the 
 master should return; "you can hold him as 
 a hostage for the safe return of your father; 
 he is the dearest thing I could leave you." He 
 patted the beautiful creature on the head and 
 went slowly from them. He returned home- 
 ward by the river-path and in less than a half 
 hour was on horseback and on his way to 
 C— . 
 
 He longed to do this little service for the 
 girl he loved as ardently as any belted knight 
 ever longed to display his lady's colors on the 
 battle field. 
 
 She heard the distant sound of his horse's 
 flying feet and now he was gone; just as the 
 other had gone from her that day, with a kiss 
 upon her forehead and fond words upon his 
 lips. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 The public square in the town of C — pre- 
 sented a busy appearance on this Saturday 
 afternoon in June, 1856. 
 
 The auction crier was standing on a plat- 
 form and the sales of the day had just 
 drawn to a close, when Marlowe rode up on 
 horseback and halted on the outskirts of the 
 crowd. Presuming that the object of his 
 search would be found here, he dismounted 
 and threw his bridle to a little black urchin 
 who came up, with a flash of white teeth re- 
 vealed in a broad grin at the prospect of a 
 lucrative job, and entered the throng. 
 
 He was surprised to find the major not 
 there, but an event had just then transpired 
 which put his errand out of his mind for the 
 moment. The epidemic of merriment showed 
 that something unusual had occurred. Mar- 
 lowe inquired of a townsman what the matter 
 was, and as soon as the fellow could command 
 
70 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 his voice he told him that "that — cuss Hank 
 Staples had just bought a nigger," and lapsed 
 into his paroxysms of laughter again. Just 
 *then he spied old Ben sitting disconsolately 
 on a bench in the background shaking his 
 nead and talking to himself. It was he who 
 nad been sold to Hank Staples. 
 
 Marlowe could not understand it; after a few 
 words with the auctioneer, he crossed over 
 to the old darkey and laid a hand kindly upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 Uncle Ben raised his head, and a look of 
 rapture came into his eyes when he saw who 
 it was. Walter had come to be associated 
 with his own folks in the old fellow's mind. 
 
 "Glory to Gawd! am dat you, Mas'r Wal- 
 ter?" he cried, and poured out the tale of his 
 woe; he belonged "to the trash." Walter 
 stood there and heard the whole pitiful story 
 rehearsed; the desperate circumstances of the 
 McNaughtons, this last resource to which they 
 had been driven; it revealed a depth of neces- 
 sity of which even he had been entirely igno- 
 rant. He was not surprised then that the 
 major had absented himself from the scene. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 71 
 
 He wished that he had been a little earlier, 
 he would have bought the old negro at almost 
 any price; how pleasant it would have been 
 to tell Laurie that her old Ben would still be 
 hers; for he knew how she would take his 
 loss to heart. He was meditating a plan by 
 which he might still treat with Mr. Staples 
 and buy him back. 
 
 It would cost him something though to ap- 
 proach the despised upstart in an amiable 
 way. The story had more than once reached 
 his ears, that, presuming on his convivial re- 
 lationship with the major, the parasite had 
 dared lift his eyes to the major's daughter. 
 To a certain side of Marshall McNaughton's 
 nature Hank Staples appealed, but it was the 
 worst side; and he would sooner have seen 
 his little girl in her grave than that the fellow 
 should ever say a familiar word to her. The 
 idea simply never occurred to him that such 
 a thing could be thought of; and Hank, in 
 the meantime, had often spoken of her as his 
 sweetheart. Nothing but his respect for her 
 name had kept Marlowe s hand from the fel- 
 low's collar many times when that name had 
 
72 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 been, in the most casual way, upon his lips. 
 
 The young man was standing beside Uncle 
 Ben, meditating upon the affair, with any- 
 thing but an amiable expression of face, when 
 it was proposed that all should adjourn to the 
 nearest bar-room, which proved to be "Hart- 
 ley's." 
 
 "Hartley's" was a place of that type at 
 which the two classes, the respectable com- 
 moner and the upper ten, made their nearest 
 approach to affiliation. The chasm that 
 divided them irrevocably, was narrower here 
 than elsewhere, and although one seldom 
 stepped from the one side to the other, they 
 would often here shake hands across it. 
 
 It is obvious what an attraction such a place 
 would possess for the younger men of the 
 town; and it became, consequently the bete 
 noir of the heads of the college of S — , which 
 was situated in the suburbs and under whose 
 walls assembled daily the scions of the best 
 families in the state. The most strenuous 
 rules were fixed against the students resorting 
 thither at all, but these soon became Dracon- 
 ian laws, too hard to be fulfilled. So, the 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 73 
 
 president and the faculty, though they still 
 considered "Hartley's" a thorn in the flesh, 
 were forced to compromise the matter, and 
 the older fellows knew that a Saturday even- 
 ing spent in that convivial company would 
 not be brought up against them, if their 
 studies were not interfered with in conse- 
 quence. 
 
 It was already getting toward evening when 
 Marlowe entered; he had expected to meet 
 his companions there in the evening, and he 
 made it a point to avoid the appearance of 
 his real errand. A brilliant company had 
 already assembled, and there, surrounded by 
 an admiring group, sat the major talking his 
 noisiest. The young man, who watched him 
 to-night with a new interest, thought that he 
 had purposely worked himself into this state 
 of feverish hilarity for a purpose ; at any rate, 
 he had fully embarked on a sea of glory in 
 which he promised to be submerged before 
 long; that was clear. 
 
 Marlowe greeted him casually and turned 
 to where some friends were talking at an open 
 window, and joined them; still keeping an 
 
74 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 unobserved espionage upon him, however. To 
 urge him to return home, would have been, 
 at this juncture, like oil to the flames, he re- 
 flected, and so the only thing was, simply, to 
 keep him in sight; in that way he could at 
 least fulfill his promise to Laurie, and take 
 him home safe — if not sober. 
 
 A reinforcement to the merry party soon 
 arrived in a detachment of the college boys 
 off for their Saturday holiday. They were all 
 classmates of Marlowe's, and would graduate 
 in a few weeks. It was understood that, in 
 a way, this would be their last night's fun to- 
 gether; they would disperse after commence- 
 ment to their homes in various parts of the 
 Southern states. 
 
 They were the members of an organization 
 connected with their college, similar, I sup- 
 pose, to those that exist in all such institu- 
 tions. The object being simply to have fun, 
 as a relief from the routine of study ; and band- 
 ed together in order to accomplish that end 
 more effectually. 
 
 It began in the same way as so many of 
 those secret societies in the South, which in 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE J$ 
 
 war time, and in the "reconstruction" period, 
 assumed so much importance in the eyes of 
 the new government — namely, in a project to 
 enjoy themselves, and, by a pledge of mutual 
 support, to protect themselves, in some 
 measure, from the chastisement of the faculty. 
 This particular clan had been organized sev- 
 eral years before by a senior class, and handed 
 down to each succeeding one, until it had 
 grown to be a time-honored institution among 
 the students. It was considered a mark of 
 distinction for a stranger to be admitted; for 
 the very essence of the thing depended upon 
 a certain point of honor. 
 
 It was stipulated in the initiation formula 
 that each member should pledge his most 
 sacred honor to maintain a strict secrecy con- 
 cerning anything that might occur when they 
 were on any escapade together. If any mem- 
 ber should be charged with a misdemeanor, 
 he was to keep silent, whether innocent or 
 guilty, and the others to do likewise, so as to 
 baffle detection of the culprit. Nothing more 
 was apprehended than a breach of college 
 rules and the vengeance of the faculty. 
 
76 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 Hitherto, the plan had been eminently 
 successful, and it was the proud boast of the 
 order that not a man had ever been induced, 
 under any hard circumstances, to break the 
 oath; one young fellow even suffered expul- 
 sion from college, when suspicion had fallen 
 upon him, rather than speak on a particular 
 occasion; and he was promptly canonized 
 in the memory of the order. 
 
 For several days after the idea of this new 
 club was conceived, the students had assumed 
 a very promising attitude of studiousness over 
 the open pages of their Horace and their 
 Euclid, while they were racking their brains 
 to find a name which would be both original 
 and applicable. At last one night when lights 
 were out, and the devotees of learning were 
 supposed to be resting after their arduous 
 tasks, one bright genius of the class an- 
 nounced that he "had it!" the clan should 
 be called the "Order of the Mid-knights," 
 a name significant of the chivalrous intentions 
 of the order, and, also, of the hour at which 
 they would generally hold their seances. This 
 inspiration was hailed with as much enthusi- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 77 
 
 asm as was compatible with the necessity of 
 speaking under their breath, and the title was 
 adopted. 
 
 The management of the college had made 
 many efforts to disband the "M. K's," hoping 
 as each succeeding class graduated and left 
 the institution, it would be prevented from 
 entering again; but all to no avail; the first 
 thing they knew, the prize scholars of the 
 class would be seen with the irrepressible in- 
 signia, the magical "M. K.", engraved on ring 
 and stud. 
 
 One president, a Dr, Williams, had put his 
 hand to the plow and endeavored to root out 
 the evil; an evil the more formidable in that 
 this oath of secrecy had grown through suc- 
 cessive generations to be considered a sacred 
 trust, a sort of pledge of honor, that any man 
 would have considered it dire disgrace to vio- 
 late; he threatened to expel from the college 
 every young man refusing to abandon the 
 order. The result was that almost the entire 
 class announced their intention to leave. And 
 so the worthy president found that his con- 
 stituency would not back him up. He offered 
 
78 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 his resignation in dignified umbrage; the 
 trustees accepted it and the students remained. 
 So the matter stood when the class of Walter 
 Marlowe — the class of 1856 — entered on its 
 career, and never had the "M. K's" promised 
 to be more troublesome. Young Harry Napier 
 — the son of that Judge Napier who now sat 
 upon the bench of the supreme court of 
 Georgia, was chosen chief for the year; and 
 it was generally expected that the escapades 
 of the class would reach their maximum un- 
 der his reign. He and Marlowe were the best 
 of friends, and it was pleasant to see the 
 smile that lit up this charming young fellow's 
 face when he saw Walter, on entering Hart- 
 ley's with a half dozen other students and 
 "M. K's." 
 
 Walter was the Beauclerc of the class, and 
 they all were proud of him; he knew that 
 Harry had been far more delighted when the 
 honors of the year fell to his friend than if 
 he had won them himself; in fact, he would 
 have been surprised if any one had suspected 
 him of wishing for them; said he did not go 
 in for that sort of thing himself. This mad- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 79 
 
 cap had always said that Marlowe was his 
 better self — no one else had ever exercised so 
 much influence over him. He was in his 
 lightest, merriest mood this evening, and ral- 
 lied Walter on his sober looks. 
 
 Pretty soon he discovered the major; and 
 nothing ever pleased him quite so much as to 
 listen to the witty stories and Mexican rem- 
 iniscences that prevailed when the veteran 
 was in the humor for them. The young fel- 
 low's inimitable laugh rang out every now 
 and then, and Walter knew that both the ora- 
 tor and the listener were taking more wine 
 than was customary among the students. 
 
 Soon, however, the scene changed; the 
 major stopped short and muttered something 
 under his breath; it sounded like a curse, but 
 Walter could not hear the words. Then in 
 walked Hank Staples — who had never been 
 countenanced here but under Major McNaugh- 
 ton's wing, — with Uncle Ben at his heels. He 
 evidently felt a right to make free among gen- 
 tlemen because he had "bought a nigger." 
 
 The situation dawned upon the old slave's 
 former master at once, and he sat staring at 
 
80 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 the new-comers in a stupefied way, his brow 
 contracted into a heavy frown, and the half 
 emptied glass still grasped in his hand; but 
 instantly on observing that he was attracting 
 attention, he turned the conversation again 
 into its former channel. He would not look in 
 the old negro's direction, and he drank more 
 heavily and more recklessly after that. The 
 conversation soon became general, and he 
 soon lost all sense of soreness in the general 
 conviviality — apparently. 
 
 Mr. Hank Staples was a conspicuous mem- 
 ber of that old branch of the population in the 
 South so well known as the "po' white trash," 
 a grade from which a man rarely, if ever, 
 emerged; however, as I say, he had certain 
 characteristics which gave him the entree to 
 Hartley's, where, for the time being, he made 
 more or less free with his acquaintances. 
 Though ten years younger he had "fit long 
 side o' Major McNaughton in the Mexican 
 wah;" and somehow the major had always 
 been his friend. 
 
 He was also something of a wag and told 
 a good story. So, like the king's jester of "ye 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 8l 
 
 olden time," he was privileged to say, virt- 
 ually, whatever he pleased at the expense of 
 any one present; no self-respecting man would 
 resent it, unless the offense should be very 
 marked. He gained a precarious living, one 
 scarcely knew how, consequently, the sur- 
 prise of all when he stepped up and bid a 
 price for the old negro. 
 
 One of the company evidently had not 
 digested the phenomenon yet, for, during a 
 little lull in the cross-fire which was kept up 
 between Mr. Staples and different members of 
 the company, he broke in with, "Say, Hank! 
 what the devil did you buy that old nigger for 
 anyhow? He'll die on your hands before 
 Christmas." 
 
 "Well, that's just what I bought him for," 
 replied Hank with a chuckle. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the chorus, "what does 
 the fool mean by that?" 
 
 "Wall, it's jest this way, gentlemen," con- 
 tinued he, nothing abashed, "you see I haven't 
 ever owned a nigger, and a man caint git 
 inter good 'ciety till he has niggers o' some 
 
 sort." 
 6 
 
82 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "That's so, Hank," said some one after the 
 general outburst had subsided, "you struck 
 the keynote then, but what'll you do when 
 the old fellow dies — and you won't have either 
 nigger or your money?" 
 
 "Wall, now, I reck'n that's jest what I'm 
 layin' fur, gentlemen. I'm goin' to engage a 
 place for him in the nigger graveyard here in 
 town and have him buried by the Meth'dis 
 chache when he dies; you've alius been a 
 good Meth'dis hain't you, Unc' Ben?" he 
 called over his shoulder. 
 
 "Yes, sah ! I is, bress Gawd !" responded the 
 old darkey, from his place in the rear of the 
 party, the weary look on his face brightening 
 a little at the thought of the posthumous 
 honors that awaited him. 
 
 "Well, then, yer see," continued Mr. Sta- 
 ples, "when Unc' Ben dies, I'm agoin' to have 
 him buried in town, and have the chache bells 
 tolled fur his funeral; and when the people is 
 all settin' 'roun' the squar' some un'll say, 
 *Hello! who's that gittin' buried? I hain't 
 h'yearn o* nobody's dyin'.' Then some un 
 else'U say in a kind o' off-hand way: 'Oh! 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE $3 
 
 that's one o' Mr. Hank Staples' niggers,' so, 
 you see, I'll be a durned.aristocrat arter that.'' 
 They all laughed heartily at this unique plan, 
 Uncle Ben (who, it must be confessed, was 
 cheering up under the influence of Bourbon 
 and sugar,) heartiest of all. Harry Napier 
 thought the joke deserved recognition, and 
 they all had their glasses refilled. After that 
 Mr. Staples — slave-holder, and aristocrat 
 elect, began a sparring match with the major 
 on eld Mexican days, and they prevailed upon 
 him (the major) — who had a grand voice — to 
 sing them a song. He sang with fine effect: 
 
 " The guns had hushed their thunder, 
 The drums in silence lay; 
 When came the senorita, 
 
 The maid of Monterey," etc. 
 
 During the singing, Uncle Ben was worked 
 up into an ecstasy by the melody, and after 
 swaying from side to side for a minute or two 
 began also, singing a song in the same key, 
 but with a widely different import from the 
 other: 
 
 *' A charge to keep I has, 
 A God to glorify: 
 A nebber dyin' soul to sabe, 
 And fit her fur de sky." 
 
84 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 The occurrence did not harmonize with the 
 convivial scene. A dead silence followed the 
 voice. Many felt the unconscious rebuke. 
 
 "Shut up, you old black Meth'dis!" cried 
 Hank Staples, "or I'll knock yer two eyes 
 inter one." 
 
 "I wish yer would," whined Uncle Ben, 
 "an' knock my brains out too; fur I heap 
 ruther be dead than ter b'long to you. I'se 
 got a nebber dyin' soul as good as yourn an* 
 I'se hones' an' squar' ; an' I kin read de Bible, 
 and say de Lawd's prar, an' dat's more'nyou 
 kin do, if you is my marster." Uncle Ben's 
 heart prompted the thought; Bourbon and 
 sugar spoke the words. Hank Staples struck 
 him on the mouth, but if he had intended to 
 repeat the blow he could not, for he was 
 seized by Marlowe, and was on the floor in 
 an instant. 
 
 "You dare to strike that old man, you low- 
 lived cur!" he muttered between his clenched 
 teeth, "and you will have to deal with me." 
 
 The young man's hand was at his throat, 
 and his knee on the pigeon-breast of the 
 "trash." It was the last touch to his long pent 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 85 
 
 animosity, and before he knew it, his temper 
 took fire. He knew how the old negro was 
 loved by Laurie, and that blow was too much. 
 
 Major McNaughton had, also, half arisen 
 from his chair, his brow dark and threatening; 
 but Marlowe had no sooner given way to his 
 anger than he felt the imprudence of it; per- 
 haps he felt a little ashamed to attack any- 
 thing so low and mean; and he thought also 
 that, with all his brutality, the fellow had once 
 done a great service to Laurie's father, and 
 was befriended by him. 
 
 "What shall I do with him, gentlemen?" he 
 said, "you all saw that dastardly act; he isn't 
 worth killing." 
 
 "Git up," said the major curtly; and, 
 strangely enough, Marlowe arose, and spurn- 
 ing the prostrate figure slightly with his foot, 
 let him go. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the young fellow, turn- 
 ing to the others, "you all know that my hon- 
 ored father is a preacher of the gospel, and 
 has spent his life in the service of the church; 
 the hymn that old man began to sing was 
 always a favorite of his, and no one shall in- 
 
86 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 suit that old negro or pour contempt on that 
 hymn, unless he first puts me beyond the 
 power of hearing him." 
 
 "You are right," several voices said. 
 
 The major looked silently on while the 
 young fellow was speaking. "Walter," he 
 said, "come here; you see that old man; he 
 has not many years to live, maybe, but take 
 him yourself — your father won't object to any- 
 thing you do, he is a good man and a holy 
 one — and let him spend his last years in 
 peace." 
 
 "I will do that gladly," responded Marlowe, 
 "I was going to propose it myself." 
 
 The plan was applauded by all. "That 
 will suit all round," said some one. 
 
 "Wall, it won't suit me," said Hank Sta- 
 ples, "fur I hain't agoin' to sell him." 
 
 "Yes, you will !" thundered the major. "Yes, 
 you will," echoed the crowd. "And if you 
 don't agree," continued the major, incensed 
 at last against his parasite, "you'll never set 
 foot in my house agin, an' I'm the only 
 friend you've got in the world, you know 
 that d— well." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 87 
 
 "You've got your title to aristocracy, you 
 idiot!" suggested some dne, "now's your 
 chance to get your money back besides." 
 
 This argument seemed to find a lodgment 
 in his alleged mind, or, perhaps, he was not 
 willing to break with Laurie's father, and so, 
 after a little, he gave a half reluctant acqui- 
 escence to the plan. 
 
 "How do you like the idea, Uncle Ben?" 
 asked Harry Napier, who was chosen, on the 
 strength of being the judge's son, to preside 
 over the sale. 
 
 "Amen! Amen! I likes it powerful;" re- 
 ponded Ben; "Mas'r Walter nex' 'ting to my 
 own folks, an' I likes to git a chance to lib 
 wid de good ole doctor." 
 
 "Then," said Napier laughing, "Uncle Ben 
 must stand upon the bench over there and 
 knock himself down to the highest bidder. 
 Nevermind, Mr. Staples," he continued, see- 
 ing the rather crestfallen look of the "trash," 
 "we will run up the bids until Marlowe pays 
 you a good price for your property." His fun- 
 loving spirit hailed the sport of the thing, but 
 he was too kind at heart to willingly see any 
 
88 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 creature suffer for it. His faults — and they 
 were many — were the faults of a rash temper, 
 never deliberate cruelty. Under all his wild 
 ways he had a heart that would not take 
 pleasure in the suffering of anything that 
 lived. 
 
 Uncle Ben took his stand on the bench, 
 highly amused, but equal to the occasion. 
 "Heah I stan', gentlemen," he began; "goin,' 
 goin,' goin,' to de highest bidder; how much 
 is I offered fur dis good 'telligent nigger? He's 
 hones' an' squar' an' he's got a heap o'sense, 
 an' he'll make a good han' to ten' to de do', 
 an' carry 'roun' passels, an* mebbe, sometime, 
 when dey ain't got nobody else he kin preach 
 to de niggers 'bout de dangers ob de hen- 
 roos', an' de watermillion patch; how much 
 is I offered fur dis good valuable nigger?" 
 
 Marlowe bid the price Staples had paid 
 previously. 
 
 "Gone!" said Uncle Ben, dismounting, "de 
 nigger is yourn." 
 
 "Hold on," said young Napier, the judge, 
 "that isn't legal and just to the owner; you 
 can't knock yourself down on one bid; you 
 must wait for the second, at least." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 89 
 
 "How much is I offered fur dis fine ole nig- 
 ger?" continued that individual, getting just 
 a little anxious now as to his fate. 
 
 Some one else made a bid for the fun of the 
 thing, and Marlowe made a still higher one. 
 
 "Is dat s'ficient?" inquired Uncle Ben. 
 
 "Yes," explained Napier, "but don't close 
 the sale too quick, give the buyers a chance." 
 
 "All right," said Uncle Ben, "but if de right 
 pusson don't bid de highes' price dis auction 
 ain't gwine ter close till to-morrer mornin'." 
 
 There were no more bids, and he announced: 
 
 "I'm goin, ' goin, ' gone to Mr. Marlowe 
 fur de highes' bid, and cheap at half de 
 money." Uncle Ben was henceforth "one o' 
 dem stuck up Marlowe niggers," whom Aunt 
 Viney couldn't get along with "nohow." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 The hours wore on, and the twilight deep- 
 ened into night — still the revelry continued. 
 
 Uncle Ben had been seated in a farmer's 
 wagon, and consigned to the Rev. Duncan 
 Marlowe without any written explanation; 
 leaving him to make the best terms he could 
 with the kind-hearted clergyman. 
 
 The students of every college have their 
 peculiar way of having fun. Those of the S — 
 college, the "M. K's," found their highest 
 enjoyment in forming themselves into a 
 marauding party and turning the town topsy- 
 turvy on Saturday nights, so that the long- 
 suffering citizens, on the morrow, would won- 
 der if an earthquake had visited the place 
 during the night or set them to doubting that 
 they, themselves, were in a rational state of 
 mind. 
 
 Walter Marlowe astounded them all this 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE gi 
 
 night by refusing to go with them, as he 
 wished to return home with the major; but it 
 was voted that the major should join the 
 party. Then came a difficulty; the major, 
 in his capricious mood, insisted that Hank 
 Staples should go wherever he went; so the 
 situation was, plainly, to either admit him or 
 lose the major, and, consequently, Marlowe; 
 so they chose the former course. Harry 
 Napier insisted that both the new-comers 
 should take the oath of the "M. K's." 
 
 He read it over and they subscribed to it, 
 the oath referring to the one night only; it 
 did not admit them into the order at all; that 
 required an elaborate formula. This was the 
 oath: 
 
 "In the name of heaven, and in the pres- 
 ence of you my companions, I do solemnly 
 swear that I will never reveal the secrets of 
 this night's work so long as I shall live, so 
 help me God!" 
 
 And these fatal words they repeated because, 
 in their blindness, they loved the exaggera- 
 tion — the solemn tone of them; — idle young 
 fellows who had nothing else to do. 
 
92 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 The major, who was wildly hilarious when 
 his changeable mood shifted in that direction, 
 said he considered having fun the inalienable 
 right of all young men at college. 
 
 "I remember," said the major, "about ten 
 years ago, when the Jinkins boys was in the 
 'M. K's.' One of 'em is the smartest lawyer 
 in the state now, and stands a good chance 
 of bein' governor; Clodious Jinkins — 'Clod,' 
 as they used to call him — was head o'the clan 
 just as you are now, Mr. Napier. Well, one 
 Saturday night jest before commencement — 
 like it is now — them boys went out to have a 
 good time, and, glory! didn't they make this 
 old town lively, for a few days! Sunday 
 mornin' come, and the folks all got up and 
 commenced to git ready for church. The 
 parson, who had been pretty hard on the S — 
 boys in his sermon, had on his best clothes 
 and was jest washed and shaved and started 
 out for a mornin' walk; when he lifted the 
 latch, his hands was stuck fast with tar, ha! 
 ha! and there wasn't no soap -in his house 
 that could take it off before church time. 
 Nearly all the sign-boards in town was turned 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 93 
 
 upside down; the front steps of the hotel 
 was oiled so slick that everybody that came 
 out set down before they got invited to, and 
 went to the ground like boys on a cellar 
 door. On the door of the old jail up there 
 was stickin' the placard from the new hotel 
 sayin' 'handsome new lodgin's fitted up for 
 guests, and all the delicacies of the season 
 without extra charge. ' 
 
 "The old president had just been removed 
 because he was too strict with the boys, 
 though he didn't do nuthin' but enforce the 
 rules as he found 'em; but, you see, it wouldn't 
 do to let the institution git unpopular; so 
 they put another man in his place; and the 
 Saturday which I was speakin' about, the 
 boys burned him in effigy — so to speak. In 
 the middle of the public square, there is where 
 they made his grave; and Sunday mornin' 
 as the folks went to church, they saw a fresh 
 mound o' earth and a white painted board at 
 the head of it on which was wrote the fol- 
 
 lowin': 
 
 "Sacred to the memory of 
 
 President Williams, 
 
 who was killed by the accidental discharge of 
 
 his duty. 
 
94 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "That struck me as bein' pretty funny, as 
 well as havin' a kind of rebuke to the trustees 
 down in the heart of it. Well, I tell you 
 they didn't leave no stone unturned to find 
 out the feller what wrote that. They fell on 
 one young man and thought by threatenin' 
 to expel him and disgrace him, they'd make 
 him speak, and tell who'd done it; but they 
 didn't and the poor fellow was turned out in 
 a shameful way. 'Twas pretty hard on him, 
 'specially as most people thought 'twant him 
 'tall; but that was better than breakin' that 
 oath what's been kept by so many men; for 
 I reckon a feller wouldn't hardly hold up his 
 head here in C — if he'd broke the oath of the 
 'M. K's,' — you know how it is yourselves; 
 it's been kept so long that it's got to be a sort 
 of feelin' amongst you that it must be kep' 
 anyhow, eh? 
 
 "Well, that mornin' Ijes' went on, laughin' 
 fit to kill myself, when I spied the head of 
 'Mose, ' my old mule, stickin' out o' the 
 second story winder o' the court-house. He 
 was blind, most, and would go any where they 
 led him, an' there he was that peaceful Sun- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE g5 
 
 day mornin' stickin' his head out o' the win- 
 der, all ring-streaked and striped, from his 
 head to his tail, like unto a zebry in the circus. 
 That was the trick they played on me; but I 
 didn't git mad, no, not a whit; I believe in 
 the boys havin' fun." 
 
 It was agreed by the students that the ma- 
 jor was a trump; and they set their wits to 
 work to devise some mischief to eclipse, if 
 possible, even the record of the Jinkenses. 
 
 The major said: "I know you boys don't 
 mean no harm, and if anybody interferes with 
 you jest refer 'em to us, eh, Hank?" 
 
 "Thar's whar you are solid, maje," replied 
 Mr. Staples; "we stuck together at 'Cherry 
 Gordy, ' an' 'Buner Vistir, ' and I reckon we 
 kin stick to the boys through a little frolic 
 like this." 
 
 Some one proposed, as they were leaving 
 Hartley's, to drink Mr. Staples' health after 
 such a chivalrous speech; but Hank, forget- 
 ting his caution in his delight at being so well 
 into the major's good graces again, said: "No, 
 gentlemen, ef you want to honor me, drink 
 to Laurie McNaughton, the gal what I love 
 best." 
 
g6 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 And again, for the second time that night, 
 Marlowe was upon him. He spoke in an un- 
 dertone so that only a few heard him. "You 
 impertinent scoundrel!" he said, (trembling 
 in the effort to speak low and avoid attracting 
 the general attention) "if you speak her name 
 in my presence again, I'll whip you until you 
 are half dead." 
 
 "Good for you, Hank '"said the major, who 
 alone understood it all; "you're gettin' too 
 d — impudent lately; keep in your place here- 
 after and don't you dare to say them words 
 again — d'ye hear?" 
 
 Then the marauders started on their rounds, 
 the major having many a laugh at the ludi- 
 crous things they did; but Hank Staples stood 
 aside, sullenly muttering between his teeth: 
 "Go ahead and have your fun now, yer stuck- 
 up swells! my turn'll come one o' these days." 
 
 They had fun to their hearts' content; but 
 as the town clock stuck two, the major sud- 
 denly grew tired of it all, and said he was go- 
 ing home; and Walter could not be dissuaded 
 from his purpose to accompany him. He 
 had arrived too late to prevent the degrada- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 97 
 
 tion that Laurie had feared; but he would do 
 all he could — he would at least see that he re- 
 turned to his home in safety. So the whole 
 party agreed to escort them also. This ar- 
 ranged, they started on their journey in great 
 glee; there were, besides Major McNaughton 
 and Hank Staples, six of the students; all the 
 five were to graduate with Marlowe in a few 
 weeks. 
 
 They answered, at roll call, to the names 
 of Arthur Dalton, Ernest Caldwell, Randolph 
 King, Lewis Holbrook, Walter Marlowe and 
 Harry Napier. With the exception of Staples, 
 they were all well mounted. The old Senora, 
 wonderful, for one of her great age, showed 
 to no disadvantage among the array of mag- 
 nificent animals, but held her own nobly. 
 Harry Napier rode his famous coal-black 
 mare. 
 
 Harry Napier the peerless! How long and 
 how well the people remembered him — erect, 
 and lithe of limb — they said he had the dark- 
 est blue eyes they ever saw, and hair of a rich 
 chestnut brown, thrown back from his fore- 
 head and falling in heavy clusters about his 
 7 
 
98 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 neck. He was a stranger to fear, malice and 
 meanness, and without an enemy in the world. 
 Yet he was the outlaw of the neighbor- 
 hood. They said, too, that they had seen 
 him do such deeds of foolhardiness, and come 
 through them, that they had come almost to 
 think him invincible to harm. 
 
 His father, the judge, who, in. his heart, 
 every one knew idolized the boy, often sen- 
 tenced him to be locked up over night for 
 some disturbance of the peace; but it always 
 so happened that no constable could be found 
 able to execute the order. There was not one 
 of them who would not have abused his 
 office, to some extent, for love of the wild, 
 but generous-hearted young fellow. He was 
 the leading spirit to-night. 
 
 Marlowe, noticing him carefully, thought 
 he had taken more wine than usual; in fact 
 Marlowe himself was the only one in the 
 party exempt from the same charge. He tried 
 to conceal from the major that he was acting 
 according to a promise made to Laurie; he 
 knew the father well enough to feel sure that 
 he would resent the idea of surveillance; but 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 99 
 
 still he kept close to him. The major would 
 break out into a most hilarious manner occa- 
 sionally, but Marlowe, who watched him 
 closely also, could not escape the impression 
 that the greater part of it was forced; he was 
 trying to drown unpleasant thoughts, evi- 
 dently, but the experiences of the day had 
 left a sore spot very near the surface, and 
 woe to the hand that should touch it! 
 
 Their way lay across a small river which, at 
 certain places, could be safely forded. Old 
 "Senora,"the mare, had crossed it and carried 
 her master safely over, a thousand times; but 
 there were certain inequalities in the bed of 
 the river which were to be carefully avoided 
 and, at a little distance from the ford, there 
 were several deep holes, supposed to be too 
 well known to require a mark. The old mare 
 herself, would have known how to pick her 
 way safely across, but she had never crossed 
 it in such company before. 
 
 The mad cavalcade dashed in without a 
 moment's hesitation, Marlowe riding close to 
 the major, — and in a few minutes they were 
 climbing the bank on the other side — all but 
 
IOO A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 two. Senora had gotten into the treacherous 
 pitfalls and lost her footing; she fell, precipi- 
 tating her rider into the water. Marlowe 
 shouted to the others to stop, and in a very 
 few minutes they got the major ashore, 
 thoroughly suaked, thoroughly angry, and 
 swearing like a trooper for his horse. But the 
 faithful creature was fast getting beyond help. 
 Below the ford there was a fall in the river, 
 and being badly hurt and unable to swim she 
 went swiftly towards it. 
 
 The night was dark, and her master dazed 
 and maddened by the brandy he had drunk. 
 
 "Where is my horse?" he shouted. "Bring 
 me my horse, you scoundrels!" A horrible 
 fear enraged him. 
 
 "Senora, my girl!" he called to her, and 
 started towards the ford again. The mare, 
 now near the fall, and plunging helplessly, 
 answered him in a wild shrieking neigh. Have 
 you ever heard the cry of a drowning horse? 
 Those who have, pray that they may never 
 hear it again. Her master realized that she 
 was going to her death; with a deep curse, 
 he staggered forward in a mad impulse to 
 
V MODERN QUIXOTE IOI 
 
 save her. This would have been suicide; few 
 swimmers, in best condition, could have with- 
 stood the strong current just above the fall. 
 
 Marlowe had done his best; two strong arms 
 went round the major's waist and held him 
 back. He struggled desperately to loosen the 
 grasp, now thoroughly angry, but it was firm 
 as iron. His idolized horse — his darling Se- 
 nora — was dying before his eyes, and he could 
 not stir to her rescue. In the brief instant in 
 which he heard her terrible neighing, and stood 
 there, pinioned, past scenes arose before his 
 eyes with the swiftness of thought — the 
 bloody battles of Mexico through which the 
 gallant mare had borne him, answering like a 
 child to each touch, each word; all the thrill- 
 ing scenes of danger when her fleet limbs had 
 brought him with a speed like the wind; now 
 the noble beauty — next to Laurie, the pride 
 of his heart — was struggling in the dark water, 
 and he stood there helpless. 
 
 "Let me go!" he shouted once more, with 
 a terrible oath, but the others gathered 
 around him and held him back; they knew it 
 would be death to him if they let him go. 
 
102 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 Then, as their eyes grew more accustomed to 
 the darkness down the stream, they saw her, 
 with a convulsive effort to gain a footing, go 
 over the rocks. 
 
 That was the end; the death scream, as 
 the waters swept her over, struck horror to 
 the heart of every man on the bank. When 
 her master saw that she was gone he turned 
 upon the men who had held him, with the 
 rage of a tiger in his motions. 
 
 "See, you have killed her!" he shouted. 
 "You scoundrels! now let me go!" He was 
 mad with conflicting emotions; in a moment 
 he had wrenched himself free, and struck the 
 young man who had held him heavily across 
 the face with the riding-whip which he still 
 held in his hand. The movement was so un- 
 expected that before they could disarm him 
 of the whip he had dealt several stinging, 
 lacerating blows with it and the insult was an- 
 swered. A stiletto-like blade flashed in the 
 air, and, though many arms were interposed, 
 they were too late to arrest it; the blade was 
 buried in the major's breast, and the gallant 
 horse and her once dashing rider went to their 
 death together, after all. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The wreck of a late moon arose above the 
 river bank, and looked upon the white face 
 of Marshall McNaughton as he lay, tranquil 
 and composed, under the sky of the summer 
 night, as though a loving hand had arranged 
 the disheveled garments for peaceful burial. 
 None, looking at the quiet face alone, would 
 have thought of violence and murder; death 
 had done its greatest work here, as so often 
 happens to the face that does not fear it. 
 
 It was again the face of the gallant soldier 
 
 of Cerro Gordo, lying upon the cool earth 
 
 with a dark wound beneath the folded hands, 
 
 as he had dreamed that he might lie in death 
 
 upon some battle plain under the sky of old 
 
 Mexico. Yet they had called it a kind fate 
 
 that spared the young soldier on the field of 
 
 honor! Nature had made him for a soldier; 
 
 death became him better than life. This 
 103 
 
104 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 deadly fairness brought out a wonderful like- 
 ness between this and another face just be- 
 yond the river and up through the grove, not 
 a mile from the fatal spot. The same moon- 
 light fell upon them, the same night breeze 
 kissed them, first one and then the other as it 
 wandered to and fro, fragrant with the odors 
 of the summer night; both unconscious — 
 both asleep. 
 
 Laurie had watched for her father through 
 the long afternoon, sitting by the bend where 
 she could see him first, Carlo's head resting 
 on her knee; she had no anxiety about him 
 to-day; was not Walter with him? 
 
 "We can always trust Walter, can't we, 
 Carlo?" This hitherto neglected companion 
 gave a joyous bark in answer to the beloved 
 name. He took his seat beside her, remem- 
 bering his master's charge. He laid his head 
 in her lap and prepared for a doze, keeping 
 the corner of one eye open, however, in order 
 to be up with any stray farmer's dog that 
 might come along, and receiving Laurie's 
 caresses as philosophically as though he had 
 known they were meant for some one else. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE IO5 
 
 This watch continued until the sun got very 
 low in the west; and she began then to feel 
 a keen disappointment. She had thought 
 Walter would bring him earlier this time. 
 
 "But they will come, Carlo — they will 
 come," she kept saying over and over. Carlo 
 thought they would. She said to herself, "In 
 a few moments more the sun will be behind 
 that hill; by that time they will come, I know 
 they will; we will wait that long and then — 
 go in." 
 
 Just as the reddening sun touched the sum- 
 mit, she heard the long expected sound of 
 horse's feet; she stood behind the trees by 
 the bend with her hand on Carlo's collar, and 
 waited; but her cheek blanched to a deathly 
 whiteness when the sound passed by, along 
 the main road, and she heard the strange voices 
 of the horsemen. 
 
 "Must have been a fine old place in its 
 day," said one. 
 
 "Yes," replied the other voice, "there wasn't 
 a finer place in the state twenty year ago 
 but it's been a runnin' down pretty fast here 
 lately. Reck'n things was at a pretty low 
 
106 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 ebb when he put up that old nigger for sale." 
 
 "Yes, he peared moughty cut up 'bout it; 
 well, I reck'n — " They passed out of hear- 
 ing, two neighboring farmers on their way 
 home from the sale. 
 
 The girl put a little hand on her heart in a 
 pathetic gesture of pain; she thought at first 
 they were talking of her own father; but the 
 reference to the selling of a negro, that re- 
 lieved her mind; of course they were talking 
 of some other family. But it was getting late 
 and she must go. Still no sign of horse or 
 rider on the now darkening road. 
 
 "Come, Carlo," she said; and with the 
 deepest sigh her young lips had ever yet 
 breathed, she abandoned the watch, and 
 went, with slow and heavy steps, towards the 
 house; trying, oh, so hard! not to doubt her 
 lover. Supper was a pretense. "Why, 
 Honey, what make you take on so?" old 
 Viney asked, looking at the pale face ruefully, 
 her arms akimbo. "Dis ain't de fust time what 
 yer pa did'n come home." 
 
 Poor little girl! she was trying to be brave, 
 but she had been so disappointed; the tears 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE IO7 
 
 were very near the surface, and at the first 
 touch of sympathy they overflowed. "Oh, 
 mammy!" she whispered, as she clung round 
 the old nurse's neck, lest the spirits of the air 
 should hear her blame him, "but Walter 
 promised he would bring him to me; I wish 
 Uncle Ben were here — where is he?" 
 
 "Nebber min', Honey — nebber min';" said 
 the old creature, trying to reassure her, though 
 her own heart was very heavy. She knew 
 that Uncle Ben would come no more in the 
 old way. "My 'pinion is," she began after a 
 little, as she was clearing away the untasted 
 supper, "dat Mas'r Walter done struck up wid 
 dem college chaps o' hisen, and deys gone 
 off on some o' dere sky-larkin' — " 
 
 "Oh, mammy!" 
 
 "Nebber min', Honey; I knows all 'bout it; 
 I tink Mas'r Walter mighty fine gem 'man too, 
 but ef you gits a husband what don' git drunk 
 'cepin' on Sat'days you'sgwine ter be power- 
 ful lucky — you is." 
 
 But Laurie refused to take this novel con- 
 solation. She sat by an open window and 
 watched the road until the twilight deepened 
 
108 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 into night; still they did not come, and still 
 she did not stir. The old nurse tried all her 
 powers of intimidation first, of persuasion 
 afterwards, but Laurie shook her head, too 
 full to speak, and would not go. 
 
 So Aunt Viney sat down at last to share 
 her watch, and in a few minutes, after the 
 toils of the day, was sleeping heavily in her 
 corner. The window at which Laurie sat 
 was a wide, low one, opening to the east. 
 One arm was round the huge dog's neck, and 
 her tear-stained cheek was laid upon the 
 other, which rested on the window-sill. The 
 hours wore on and the sighs which broke poor 
 Carlo's heart gradually ceased. The young 
 eyes, unused to watching and to grief, slowly 
 closed, and Laurie, thinking only that her 
 lover had forgotten his promise, had cried 
 herself to sleep. 
 
 She was sleeping thus, her head upon the 
 folded white arm, when the moon rose, first 
 upon the major's dead face by the river's 
 brink, and touched the girl's bent head with 
 its waning light; it shone into the eyes of the 
 only waking watcher there, old Carlo — who, 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I09 
 
 in the prescience of his great race, foresaw 
 misfortune, and would not quit his place by 
 Laurie's side. 
 
 He sat there through the long hours of 
 night, 1 s nose pointed upward to the moon, 
 and hi £ilken ears falling back, while a look 
 of hur. an wistfulness shone through his eyes. 
 The only sign of restlessness he betrayed was 
 that now and then he would take one white- 
 mittened paw from the girl's knee and put up 
 the other; and there he kept his charge, 
 faithful where the master had failed — wakeful 
 while the daughter slept. At length the fair 
 summer dawn broke in the east; and still 
 Laurie slept the sleep of youth. 
 
 Old Viney woke with the first streak of 
 light and went on tiptoe to another room, 
 brought a light shawl, .and, with love's gentle 
 touch, laid it around her darling's shoulders, 
 and went softly out to her tasks. She patted 
 Carlo on the head and left them together. 
 The light slowly broadened and brightened 
 on the scene, and the peaceful Sabbath morn- 
 ing had begun its reign upon the earth. 
 
 Aunt Viney went about her task of getting 
 
IIO A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 breakfast, her mind far from being in harmony 
 with the serenity of the new day. She was 
 oppressed with a persistent foreboding; she 
 had energetically characterized herself "an 
 ole black fool" many times, but, sing as she 
 would, the feeling would not be gone. 
 
 She had certainly succeeded in working 
 herself into a very hysterical state, for when 
 she looked up from blowing the smoldering 
 chunks into a blaze, and saw the familiar face 
 of Uncle Ben looking silently in through the 
 kitchen window, she uttered an ear-piercing 
 shriek and dropped her head between her 
 ^nees in true African fashion. When he spoke 
 in his earthly voice, however, and convinced 
 her there was nothing supernatural about the 
 apparition, she arose and went about her 
 work just as though nothing had happened. 
 
 "Come in, Unc' Ben," she said, "an' tell 
 somebody whar you's come from. 'Fore 
 Gawd! What you want ter be skeerin' folks 
 outen dere min'sfur, lookin'in dat kin o'quiet 
 like, as if you jes' drop from de sky or som- 
 'ers?" 
 
 "Well, fur de Lawd's sake, Sis' Viney, you 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE III 
 
 don' mean ter tell me yer ain't h'yearn nuffin 
 'bout it?" replied the visitor, as he entered 
 (with a newly acquired dignity, Aunt Vieny 
 thought,) placed his hat and stick on the floor, 
 and parting the tails of a long black coat, al- 
 so newly acquired, took his seat on the most 
 available stool. Aunt Viney, without appear- 
 ing to take much notice, was watching him 
 keenly out of the corner of her eyes. 
 
 "Ain't you dun h'yearn nuffin'bout my bein' 
 sol' to dat Hank Staples?" he continued. 
 That brought her around. 
 
 "What!" she screamed, facing about and 
 staring at the speaker; and, with open eyes 
 and mouth, and hands on her hips, she drank 
 in the rest of the story. 
 
 If there was anything the old fellow really 
 loved, it was an audience, and a good story 
 with which to regale it. He made the most 
 of this melancholy occasion, and went on to 
 give Aunt Viney, in the main, a pretty correct 
 account of the day's proceedings, after what 
 flourish his nature would; he was worked up 
 to such a state of excitement during the re- 
 cital of his experiences that he lost sight, for 
 
112 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 the time being, of his present errand. He 
 came back to it with a shock of recollection. 
 "But see yere, Sis' Viney," he began in a 
 changed tone, "what you tink when I tells you 
 Mas'r Walter ain't dun been home all night? 
 I h'yeard the ole gem'man git up more'n 
 wunst in de night and go tiptoein' to his 
 room ter see ef he wuz dere. I had a pallet 
 down in de study for dat night, an' I could'n 
 sleep nuther, kase I got to tinkin' 'bout all 
 de strange circumstancials what's been hap- 
 penin' lately, and so I h'yeard him shet de 
 do' wid a awful sigh an' go back to his own 
 room. I don' b'leive he slep' none 'tall all de 
 night long, fur he wuz up walkin' in de gyard- 
 ing jes' arter daylight, but he nebber let on, 
 an' when he seed me, he jes'sez to me, smilin' 
 at me kin' o' quiet like over his specs, 'Well, 
 Unc' Ben, don' you want ter go over ter see 
 how yer folks is gittin' 'long at de ole place 
 dis mornin'?' I 'lowed as how I'd be powerful 
 glad to go, an' when I was goin' out de gate, 
 he sez, kin' o' offhand-like — "Say, Unc' Ben, 
 you kin jes' ask 'em ef Mr. Walter wuz wid 
 de major when he kum home las' night.'" 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE H3 
 
 "Bress your heart, chile! you caint find out 
 nufnn here; we ain't seed nary a one ob 'em 
 sence yistiddy," interrupted Aunt Viney. 
 
 "My Savior 'bove! you don' say so!" cried 
 the astounded visitor. "Well, I seed yestiddy 
 Mas'r Walter had his eye on de major all day, 
 an' I 'lowed as how he dun fetch him home, 
 an'stay yere all night, to sort o' take keer of 
 him like; an' I reckon de ole doctor he kinder 
 countin' on dat too. De Lawd know, Sis' 
 Viney, dat wil' boy give his poor ole fader 
 heap o' trouble; I hope he sorter settle down 
 when he mah'y Honey, ef it warn't fur nuffin 
 but jes' de ole man's sake, he dat proud of 
 him." 
 
 "Umph!" responded Viney, "I tink he 
 better settle down some fur Honey' sake;" she 
 felt a suspicion that Unc' Ben was already 
 transferring his interest to the Marlowes, and 
 she resented it. 
 
 It was still very early when Uncle Ben 
 arose to return from his fruitless errand. He 
 did not relish the thought of going back with- 
 out news; it mortified his self-importance in 
 the first place, and besides he felt that there 
 
114 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 was some mystery on hand, and that it threat- 
 ened two beings whom he held dearer than 
 anything else on earth, unless it might be the 
 old Senora. He loved Laurie, but he wor- 
 shiped the other three. He put on his hat, 
 took up his stick, and told Aunt Viney that 
 he would go through the town, and return 
 home that way, in hopes that he might hear 
 something of the absentees. 
 
 He decided to call at young Napier's house, 
 for he knew the young fellows were great 
 chums, and Walter often spent the night with 
 him; the coincidence of the major's non-ap- 
 pearance made it a little improbable that time, 
 but still he would try it. He would "jes drap 
 in, an' fin' out 'dout askin' ef Harry wuz 
 home." 
 
 All this had occurred in a short half hour 
 after Aunt Viney had left Laurie asleep at her 
 post, and the girl did not see Uncle Ben go 
 down the walk towards the front gate. She 
 slept on, oblivious of her troubles; a happy 
 smile played around her lips. In the light of 
 her golden dream, it was her wedding-day; 
 Walter was there, looking so grand and hand- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 115 
 
 some, and he was telling her that she had 
 never looked so pretty. 
 
 There was Aunt Viney, happy and officious 
 around her darling, Uncle Ben in his Sunday 
 coat — and best of all, there was her dear 
 father shaking hands with Walter, and kissing 
 her forehead in the old fond way. The odor 
 of cape jessamines was in the air, and the 
 little wedding procession was just starting 
 from the front porch, when a loud 'sound 
 startled her from her sleep. 
 
 She sprang up in a bewildered way, and 
 Carlo, uttering terrific sounds, between a 
 bark and a howl, leapt through the open win- 
 dow. She looked down the avenue, and saw 
 a confused group of men approaching, their 
 forms tinged red with the morning sun. 
 
 As they came nearer, she saw that they 
 carried a man on their rough litter of branches, 
 and that it was her father. Uncle Ben walked 
 at the head. They brought him slowly — 
 slowly — up the wide steps, in through the 
 doorway, and into the very room, and laid 
 him down before her. Still she did not move 
 or speak; she stood against the window, her 
 
Il6 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 face as white as the wall behind her, one 
 hand stretched out, palm forward, in a con- 
 vulsive effort to shut out the sight — trans- 
 fixed with horror. 
 
 The old negro fell on his knees by his dead 
 master and rocked himself backward and for- 
 ward with a low crying sound. 
 
 Aunt Viney heard the strange voices and 
 came in to see that sight, Laurie standing 
 still in the same spot gazing tearless and 
 speechless on the floor where they had rever- 
 ently laid him down. The look on her face 
 frightened the old nurse, and she tried to get 
 her from the room. She would not hear 
 them, but stood, wide-eyed and ghastly, 
 almost, as the face before her. 
 • They were rough, kindly men, some of them 
 negroes, and they were afraid of the look in 
 the girl's face more than of the dead one be- 
 fore them. One of them, not knowing what 
 else to do or say, went out and brought in a 
 packet which they had found together with 
 the dead man's hat and whip a little way from 
 the body. They undid it before her. 
 
 There was the delicate snowy fabric of a 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 117 
 
 woman's dress — gossamer laces, and all the 
 fair belongings of a wedding robe. It was 
 the white dress he had promised her, and now 
 - — he had brought it. 
 
 It saved her ; this sight struck home through 
 the trance of terror that enveloped her, and 
 with a low cry, she threw herself upon the 
 still form, kissing the beloved hands and 
 weeping bitterly. 
 
 Old Viney, who could never bear before to 
 see her darling's tears, rejoiced to see them 
 now. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 The McNaughton place was several miles 
 from town, and it was some time before the 
 tragic news reached C — . The two old slaves 
 and the orphaned child were left for awhile 
 undisturbed with their grief. The time went 
 by but they did not count it. At last it oc- 
 curred to them that some one must be told. 
 
 The men whom Uncle Ben had summoned 
 to help him bear his master's body home were 
 ignorant farm-hands and negroes, who knew 
 this was murder and were afraid to go to the 
 proper authorities and make it known, lest 
 that act should implicate them in it, and so 
 went quietly to their homes. Uncle Ben's 
 first impulse was to go to Dr. Marlowe. 
 
 But he had been away longer than he 
 
 thought, and when he reached the Marlowe 
 
 house, he found that the doctor had been 
 
 gone some time to the church connected with 
 
 the college, where he preached. Mrs. Marlowe 
 118 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE Iig 
 
 was from home and her husband had gone 
 alone. His heart was heavy on account of 
 his son's prolonged absence, and he felt that 
 it boded some unknown evil. But his dis- 
 tress of mind did not hinder his work; no 
 earthly consideration had ever induced him to 
 neglect his religious duties; he had enlisted 
 under Christ's banner, knowing well that 
 there was no discharge in that war, and he 
 had never faltered or hung back. 
 
 The farmers of the neighborhood, as well 
 as those connected with the college, attended 
 service at the doctor's church, and were 
 already grouped about the open door. A 
 pleasant smile lit up the faces as the throng 
 parted to let the good pastor enter. He was 
 more grave this morning than was his wont, 
 but he stopped and greeted them all kindly. 
 Judge Napier stood in the vestibule talking 
 with Dr. McKenzie, the president of the 
 college. 
 
 They were chatting upon the topics of the 
 day as their custom was, before service began. 
 The judge congratulated the doctor upon the 
 good record of his son, and his approaching 
 
120 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 graduation. The doctor returned the sen- 
 timent with regard to young Napier. 
 
 "Well," said the judge, "Harry is a wild 
 fellow, but I believe his record is pretty good 
 so far as studies go. I hope after he gets his 
 diploma, he will settle down to the law and 
 lead a more quiet life. He was off last night, 
 on some mischief, I've no doubt." 
 
 "My son was also absent from home last 
 night," said Dr. Marlowe. 
 
 "Is that so? I left the young men together 
 in town yesterday afternoon." 
 
 "Who was with them?" inquired the pres- 
 ident of the college, who had been an attent- 
 ive listener. 
 
 "O, there was some half dozen of them," 
 replied the judge ; "there was young Marlowe, 
 Holbrook, Harry, Randolph King and others 
 — there was a young fellow with them — a 
 student of yours here but I don't know his 
 name." 
 
 "Probably Ernest Caldwell," said the pres- 
 ident; "some of these young men board in my 
 house and are absent this morning without 
 excuse. I fear, gentlemen, that something has 
 gone wrong." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 121 
 
 However, the service proceeded as usual; 
 some of the congregation, indeed, remarked 
 that the pastor did not preach with his wonted 
 spirit, and that the old president looked grave 
 and anxious; though none, excepting the 
 preacher, who faced the door, saw the frosted 
 head of old Uncle Ben approach the door 
 every now and then and peer anxiously in. 
 
 In his apprehensive state of mind, the pas- 
 tor readily connected the negro's strange 
 action with his son's absence, and once, for 
 the first time in his experience, he almost lost 
 the thread of his discourse. He nerved him- 
 self, however, and went on to the end, and 
 delivered the benediction in his clear, solemn 
 voice and dismissed the people. 
 
 Then he walked down the aisle to where 
 Uncle Ben was waiting for him. The old 
 fellow had gone to the door every time, in- 
 tending to signal the doctor to come out to 
 him, for he felt that this matter could not 
 wait; but a superstitious fear checked him, 
 and he would go out again, endeavoring to 
 wait, sitting on a tombstone, until the serv- 
 ice was over. He beckoned the minister 
 aside and spoke in an excited undertone. 
 
122 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 They saw the doctor throw up his hand to 
 his head, and lean against a pillar for support. 
 In a moment the awful story had spread 
 through the crowd and the excitement was 
 intense. 
 
 Uncle Ben implored the doctor to go with 
 him, and burying his own anxiety in his heart, 
 (for he could not fail to associate the murder 
 with the absence of the students) he hastened 
 to the house of death. 
 
 Poor Laurie listened to him when he laid 
 his hand upon her head and spoke to her in 
 his kind, authoritative voice, and turned to 
 him in piteous dependency. 
 
 He stayed there through the terrible day 
 and saved her from many a harrowing ordeal. 
 He bade the old nurse take her to her room 
 and keep her there until the coroner had been 
 summoned and finished his ghastly work. 
 
 The verdict was murder and not suicide, as 
 some had vaguely hoped it might be. 
 
 The minister heard, the load on his heart 
 growing heavier and heavier. 
 
 Sympathetic friends filled the house, and 
 the girl had no need of him further so he went 
 home late in the afternoon. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 123 
 
 Old Ben saw him go down the avenue alone 
 in the western light, a solitary, bent figure 
 walking slowly with his hands clasped behind 
 him, in deep thought, and followed him. The 
 house was full of strangers, there seemed 
 nothing he could do. The old master was 
 forever beyond his help, he resolved to stand 
 by the new one. They were sitting together 
 in the study when the clock struck twelve that 
 night; the doctor leaning, still, with his head 
 upon his hands, his eyes upon the open pages 
 of his Bible, his thoughts with his absent boy. 
 
 "Could he be implicated in that ghastly 
 crime, his boy, his Benjamin?" was the re- 
 frain of their monotonous query. And yet it 
 looked so dark against them all. 
 
 To Dr. Marlowe, the old negro with his 
 many years of service, and his crown of snow, 
 was indeed a "nebber dyin' soul," committed 
 to his care. He readily believed the old fel- 
 low's story of the scene in town yesterday, 
 which he had left too early to witness him- 
 self, and he was glad his son had acted in that 
 matter as he did. Knowing Uncle Ben's re- 
 ligious tendencies, he gave him an old suit of 
 
124 A M ODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 broadcloth of clerical cut, and installed him 
 at once as door-keeper — not indeed in the 
 house of the Lord, but of one of his saintliest 
 vicegerents. 
 
 "Ben," said the doctor at last, rising with 
 a deep sigh, "I must try to get some rest for 
 to-morrow; you can remain here, if you are 
 willing, a little longer and keep the light burn- 
 ing. Maybe the boy will come before morn- 
 ing. If you fall asleep it doesn't matter, but 
 don't let the light go out; you know how it 
 stands with the boy, and if he returns and 
 finds the house in darkness it may seem a re- 
 buke to him, and we may never see him again." 
 
 "Yas, Mas'r Duncan," replied the old dar- 
 key, "I'll set up an' wait fur de dear boy." 
 
 There was a holy hush in the atmosphere of 
 the study with the pictures of saints and pa- 
 triarchs looking benignly from the walls; the 
 sacred books standing on their shelves, and 
 the huge Bible spread open upon the table. 
 And this was to be Uncle Ben's home for the 
 remainder of his life! The sacred calm of it 
 fell upon him. He had been through so much 
 that day that he could not fully realize it all. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 25 
 
 The man whom he had loved and served 
 was dead, a terrible fulfillment of what they 
 had lived in dread of so long. He had found 
 the old Senora's body below the rocks during 
 the day and made her a grave with reverent 
 hands in a quiet field where the sweet clover, 
 instead of the wild pampas grasses of the South 
 would wave over her; and the feeling, half 
 of sorrow, half of rest, came over him, that his 
 work was done. If only the boy would come, 
 — surely, after the horror, it would all be well 
 again. 
 
 An hour later he arose, trimmed the lamp 
 afresh, and placed it nearer to the window, 
 singing softly to himself a verse of one of his 
 old Methodist hymns. 
 
 *' And while de lamp hoi's out to bum 
 De viles' sinner may return." 
 
 Then he timidly approached the big Bible 
 and turned the pages quietly, looking at the 
 pictures over his spectacles. There was no 
 sound, but presently he raised his eyes and 
 saw a face peering in through the window, 
 and a beckoning finger called him to the 
 door; the face was ghostly and pale as a 
 
126 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 phantom of the night, but he knew it; he 
 went to the door and softly opened it. 
 
 "For God's sake, Uncle Ben, speak low," 
 the voice said, "and do not let my father know 
 that I am here. Come with me." 
 
 They went together down a path to where 
 Walter Marlowe's companions were waiting 
 under the shadow of a clump of pines. 
 
 "Mas'r Walter, whar's you bin so long? Yo* 
 pa frettin' awful kase you did'n come home," 
 Ben whispered as he tried to keep up with the 
 young man's impatient strides. 
 
 Marlowe halted when he rejoined his friends 
 and turned to the old man. "Uncle Ben," 
 he said, "I was your friend when you were in 
 trouble, be my friend now, and I will give 
 you your freedom." 
 
 "Bress your soul, Mas'r Walter, I don' want 
 no more freedom dan I's got in de good doc- 
 tor's house, but I'd lay down my life dis 
 minit if it would help you outen any trouble; 
 'deed I would." 
 
 "Then tell me all you know of Major Mc- 
 Naughton." 
 
 "Dead !" cried the negro, raising both hands; 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 27 
 
 "dead! done murdered! I found him lyin' dar 
 dead and stiff by de riber dis mornin'. My 
 poor marster done killed, Mas'r Walter, an' 
 everbody sayin' as how some o' you young 
 men took an 'done it. An' Honey, she don' 
 do nuffin but jes' cry 'bout him all day, an' 
 yo' pa, he almos' 'stracted kase you did'n 
 come home and clar yourself. I knowed it 
 warn't you, Mas'r Walter, Iknow it warn't, but 
 I tank Gawd you's back to tell 'em so. Yo' 
 pa he could'n say nuffin kase de folks all say, 
 why dem young fellows all git away fur, ef 
 dey aint guilty? But now yo's cum back an' 
 you kin tell 'em yo' didn' do it-. Tank Gawd ! 
 Tank Gawd!" 
 
 "But listen, Uncle Ben," said Marlowe, inter- 
 rupting his loquacity and taking him silently 
 by the arm. "I cannot speak, I cannot clear 
 myself; we have sworn an oath to keep silent 
 and let the people think what they will; do 
 you understand?" 
 
 "Oh, Lawd! Mas'r Walter," cried the negro 
 astounded, "you ain't gwine to tell Honey 
 you did'n kill her pa?" 
 
 "Hush!" said Marlowe. "I must think of 
 
128 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 that hereafter; listen to me now, whether 
 you believe me guilty or not." 
 
 "Me tink you guilty, Mas'r Walter? Gawd 
 fo'gib you fur sayin'dat! I know some o* you 
 young men dun kill my poor mas'r, but I 
 know 'twant you, an' if everbody in de wide 
 yarth turn agin you I gwine to stick to you, 
 'deed I is! I j is' hopin' you was comin' home 
 to clar yoursef. Judge Napier, he was here 
 dis ebenin to talk to your pa 'bout you all." 
 
 "What did they say? Quick!" 
 
 "He said if dere warn't no witnesses to be 
 found, de gran' jury could'n git a bill gin no- 
 body an' de matter would be drapped." 
 
 "Then Uncle Ben will be the one to keep 
 us posted," said Randolph King. 
 
 "Will you promise to do it, Uncle Ben?" 
 asked Marlowe. 
 
 " 'Deed I will, Mas'r Walter, you know I do 
 anyting fur you. I hates powerful bad to be 
 shiel'n de man what murdered my poor mas'r, 
 but ef it gwine ter help you outen trouble I 
 do eben dat; Gawd knows I will." 
 
 "Will you go into town to-morrow and 
 find out how things are and let us know?" 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I2§ 
 
 "Yas, sah, I do anyting fur you." 
 
 "Then where can you meet us to-morrow 
 night?" inquired Caldwell. 
 
 Here was an opportunity to make himself 
 important, and amid all his deeper emotions 
 of sorrow and anxiety it allured the old fellow. 
 
 "Lemme see," he said, scratching his head, 
 "lemme deflect a minit, kase you ha' to be 
 powerful keerful. Mas'r Walter dun bought me 
 from de trash, and beat him for 'sultin me, 
 an' I gwine ter stick to Mas'r Walter till de 
 las' day in de ebenin'." 
 
 "Well, then, for heaven's sake, hurry up," 
 urged Holbrook, "and tell us your plan!" 
 
 "Well, den, in de fust place you gem'men 
 have to be keerful an 'don' do nufnn rashinal, 
 but jes' keep away to-morrer, an' I'll sorter 
 hang roun' an' find out ef dey'son yer track; 
 an' to-morrow night you come up to de grave- 
 yard an' hide away so nobody caint see you 
 from de road; dey wont go fro' dar in de dark; 
 dey's too skeered; an' when its gittin' kind 
 o' late, an 7 dere ain't nobody much gwine' 
 long, I cum by, kinder singin' to myself; you 
 listen to dat song, an' ef I's singin' a song o' 
 9 
 
I3C A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 good tidin's an' great joy, Mas'r Walter, 
 you'll know dar ain't no evidence 'gin you, 
 an' you kin all go home; but ef I's singin' 
 sad an' mournful like, you better git away fur 
 parts unknown." 
 
 And so it was arranged. Marlowe lingered 
 a moment behind the others and asked some- 
 thing of Uncle Ben in an undertone, concern- 
 ing Laurie; he did not wish the others to know 
 what it was; and after making the faithful 
 creature promise not to let his father know of 
 this visit, parted from him, rejoined his friends 
 and withdrew again into the darkness. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Hank Staples spent Sunday afternoon, after 
 he had heard the news, skulking about the 
 river bank. He gnawed his finger nails hun- 
 grily and gave other signs of great perturbation 
 of mind. "His day" had come, sooner than 
 he had expected. He was in a dire strait be- 
 tween his hatred of the students, especially 
 Marlowe, and his fear of them, his desire to 
 give some damning testimony against them 
 on the morrow, for which he had enough truth 
 to make a handle, and his dread of the ven- 
 geance they would most likely take upon him 
 for such an act. 
 
 They were bound to silence, and even if 
 
 they should return, could not disprove his 
 
 statement, but who was to preserve him from 
 
 the vengeance of the"M.K's"? Could he only 
 
 be sure they had gone for good, that was what 
 
 he desired above all things; then he would 
 
 accuse Marlowe to Laurie directly as her 
 131 
 
x32 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 father's murderer. He thought that but for 
 Marlowe he might have won the girl himself. 
 
 It was said that with the exception of the 
 major, Hank Staples had not a friend; but 
 that was not literally true. There was one 
 other who loved him and was true to him al- 
 ways, when others cursed and reviled him, 
 keeping his cheerless home in his absence, 
 and greeting him with a cordial welcome when 
 he returned. This solitary companion bore 
 him company this afternoon, perhaps from a 
 certain fellow feeling, being, like Hank him- 
 self, an outcast, by all despised — a poor, 
 skulking, half-breed dog. 
 
 This forlorn creature kept close to his 
 heels, walking when he walked, sitting on 
 his long haunches when he sat. The master 
 had fallen into the habit of talking to his 
 canine friend, which was just one better than 
 talking to himself; the dog sitting opposite 
 him with his lean body, and his huge head a 
 little to one side like a stem supporting a 
 flower, a look of starved sagacity on his feat- 
 ures. He was sitting thus, listening to the 
 pros and cons of the case Hank was putting to 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 33 
 
 him, when a sudden inspiration came upon 
 the master, with a rush of delight; he ex- 
 pressed it by giving his listener a kick under 
 the jaw, that sent him across the fields, yelp- 
 ing with pain. He knew it meant "go home" 
 — that was his usual signal of dismissal. 
 
 The thought which occurred to the two 
 legged cur was this, and he acted upon it — 
 he would give only as much testimony as was 
 safe at present, charging no one distinctly, 
 but coloring his statements so that they would 
 reflect injuriously on all. Then, if time 
 elapsed and they did not return, proving that 
 he had nothing to fear, he could make a fur- 
 ther statement accusing Marlowe directly of 
 the deed, stating (which would have a tone of 
 plausibility) that he had been deterred from 
 doing so at first through mortal fear of the 
 friends. 
 
 This plan arranged, he went home and kept 
 quiet until Monday morning. He had testi- 
 fied before the coroner's jury that he had been 
 in the presence of the deceased and the six 
 students until after two o'clock on Sunday 
 morning. He gave a detailed account of the 
 
134 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 mischief perpetrated by them in the town. 
 He went on to state that he left them because 
 the party had been drinking freely, and "went 
 on a teasin' an' naggin' the major" and that 
 he — Hank Staples — "bein' a law-abidin' citi- 
 zen, and not wantin' to break the Sabbath- 
 day, jes' clared out an 'left 'em." 
 
 His story, in some parts true, was a jum- 
 ble of distorted facts, filled with innuendo 
 calculated to create the strongest suspicion 
 against the students, and it accomplished its 
 purpose. 
 
 Judge Napier was present; he said, "My 
 son was with them, but if the crime was his, 
 I do not see any other way than that he should 
 suffer for it. We do not know the circum- 
 stances, there may have been justifiable 
 grounds; but let them come forward, I say, 
 and make their own defense." 
 
 The old minister, Dr. Marlowe, only said, 
 "The Lord's will be done!" 
 
 The students, especially Marlowe and Na- 
 pier, were intensely popular, but Major Mc- 
 Naughton also had many friends still; and a 
 certain element demanded that an example 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I35 
 
 ot one of that lawless band be held up to the 
 others. A warrant was issued for the arrest 
 of the six students, Harry Napier, Walter 
 Marlowe, Randolph King, Lewis Holbrook, 
 Ernest Caldwell and Arthur Dalton, 
 
 Late that night six anxious watchers, con- 
 cealed among the gravestones, heard the 
 voice of the old man singing a weird, sweet 
 melody; he passed by slowly and they could 
 hear the ominous lines: 
 
 " Hark! from the tombs a doleful soun,' 
 Mine ears attend de cry; 
 Ye libin' men, cum view de groun' 
 Whar you must shortly lie." 
 
 And before the echoes died on the air there 
 was a brief good-bye, a silent grip of the hand 
 and a hurried mounting of swift horses that 
 were to bear their riders, east, west, and 
 south, far from their homes and from each 
 other before the morning should break. For 
 some of them it was a final parting. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 It was about three days after the events 
 described in the last chapter. Poor Laurie 
 (for it seemed as though one should not call 
 her by that childish pet name now, since her 
 matriculation in the great mystery of grief;) 
 had wept her tears all away, she thought, and 
 sat drooping by the open window like a pale 
 blossom overtaken and beaten down by win- 
 ter storms when it had looked for an early 
 summer. 
 
 Uncle Ben had given her a short parting 
 message from Marlowe bidding her think as 
 kindly of him as she could, and saying that 
 he would do all in his power to see her or 
 communicate with her soon. 
 
 He had been enjoined to say that and that 
 
 alone, but the poor old fellow could not keep 
 
 his secret from her, and violated his promise 
 
 so far as to let her know her lover had left 
 
 the country. She heard him dully, being 
 136 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 37 
 
 stupefied with grief; the measure of her en- 
 durance then was full, and could not be added 
 to. When they brought her dead home, alone, 
 she had felt the keenest pang her heart could 
 know, and any other misfortune seemed but 
 to lengthen out the tale. 
 
 No voice accused Walter in her hearing, 
 but she divined, with that ingenuity for self- 
 torture which belongs to love, what they were 
 saying elsewhere. She did not think him 
 guilty of her father's murder; but she had not 
 believed that he would break his promise to 
 her that fatal day, and yet he had done it, 
 and was now a fugitive ; why had he gone if 
 innocent? 
 
 The old nurse eyed her askance as she sat 
 there silent and listless, her face looking 
 pale above her somber mourning dress, and 
 wished that something would come, if it were 
 only a fresh reminder of her loss, to rouse her 
 pet from this deadly apathy ; it frightened her. 
 
 The bitter message of her son's disappear- 
 ance had brought the proud mother home a 
 heart-broken woman. The unhappiness of 
 the past months had culminated in this ! The 
 
I38 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 head that held itself so high was bowed at 
 last. The nerves so cruelly tried through 
 that new estrangement could not bear the 
 shock, and the wretched woman succumbed to 
 an utter prostration, bodily and mentally. In 
 a few days she was a wreck of the woman all 
 C — had known and stood a little in awe of, 
 for twenty-five years. 
 
 In the hush of her darkened chamber, she 
 went over the last few months in bitter self- 
 accusation, the estrangement which had been 
 her own doing, her hard pride that had 
 stood between her darling boy and his wish. 
 Once she had awakened from a horrible night- 
 mare and could not afterward shake off the 
 premonition it left with her. Walter had ap- 
 peared to her, pale and haggard with the 
 weird exaggeration of dreams, and told her 
 that the deed was his, and that he did it be- 
 cause he knew that she would never give his 
 darling a kind welcome while the plebeian 
 father lived. She imparted her dreadto none, 
 but that face, with its hunted look, never left 
 her. 
 
 Uncle Ben, free to roam whither he would, 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 39 
 
 Spent a great part of his time on the road 
 between the two houses. 
 
 Aunt Viney saw him coming up the path 
 and hailed his advent more gladly than ever 
 now ; the dead silence of the house was appall- 
 ing' to her. She stood in the kitchen door 
 to welcome him. He took a seat on a bench 
 under the shade trees and began fanning 
 himself with his hat. 
 
 "I got 'portant business s'mornin'," he said. 
 "I met dat Hank Staples in de road, and he 
 says fur to tell Honey he got to hab a intervoo 
 wid her 'mejitly on pressin' business. I 'lowed 
 she would'n want to be talkin' to him, but 
 Mas'r Duncan, he say, 'Tell her she better 
 see him, kase he kin make heap o' trouble ef 
 he's min* to'." 
 
 "Yes," said Aunt Viney, "let's hear what 
 Hank's got to say; I ain't got no conference 
 in him, but ef he know anyting fur our good, 
 we better hear it." 
 
 To this Laurie reluctantly consented, and 
 accordingly the visitor soon presented him- 
 self. He entered the room with a shuffling 
 step, his hat in his hand. He was always a 
 
I4O A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 little less confident and aggressive in Laurie's 
 presence than elsewhere. 
 
 "Now look here, ladies," began Hank, "this 
 meetin's called fur the good of all parties. 
 I've got news of great importance, and if lam 
 treated squar', well; if not, — not well; there- 
 fore which?" 
 
 "Stop dat nonsense, Hank Staples, an'don' 
 you try to be m'sterious wid me; go long an' 
 tell de trufe — if you kin." 
 
 "Fust and fo'most then," continued Mr. 
 Staples, taking his seat on the southeast corner 
 of the chair and trying to look at ease, "I want 
 to ax what is the young lady's feelin's tow'rds 
 Walter Marlowe now?" 
 
 "The same as ever," answered Laurie; then 
 she looked at him more directly, and asked, 
 "What is that to you?" 
 
 This was a little damping at the outset. 
 
 "Circumstances alters cases, as they say, 
 miss," he went on; "you seem to furgit that 
 your pa has been murdered; Walter Marlowe 
 was with the crowd what killed him, and ef 
 he had a' loved you proper he would ha'saved 
 his life; see?" 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I4I 
 
 "You do not know but that he did try, and 
 was overpowered by the others; you say you 
 left them at the bridge. Do you know any- 
 thing about it?" 
 
 "Wall, I know a heap more'n you think, and 
 what I've got to say is brief and to the pint. 
 I've long felt that me and Miss Laurie was 
 made fur one 'nuther, and now the way is cl'ar. 
 Thar ain't nobody to consult 'bout it but the 
 parties to thecontrac' and Aunt Viney, as it 
 were. Now, before I perceed any further, I 
 wants a answer to my proposition, which 
 is the followin' — that we git married at 
 wunst." 
 
 A shudder of horror and contempt was 
 Laurie's only reply, but Aunt Viney was more 
 ready of speech; still, she remembered the 
 minister's warning. 
 
 "Hank Staples," she said, placing her hands 
 on her hips, which signified that she meant 
 what she said, "'fore we goes any furder, we 
 wants ter know what you's gvvine ter testify 
 afore us; ef it's the same what you said 'fore 
 de cor'ner's jury, I don' see no use in yer say- 
 in' it agin, an' ef its sumpin differ' nt, denyo's 
 
I42 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 a liar, and nobody don' know which tale to 
 put no conference in." 
 
 Hank Staples arose from his chair with an 
 evil look upon his face. He saw that Laurie 
 looked at him now with loathing. An ex- 
 pression of devilish cunning, of revengeful 
 animosity, distorted his features. 
 
 "Do I understan' that I am rejected; that 
 my kind offer has been trampled under foot?" 
 
 Laurie only turned from him and looked out 
 of the window, and Aunt Viney said, pointing 
 to the door, "Go 'long!" 
 
 "All right, then," gesticulating with his 
 slouched hat, "jist look out fur me ! I knows 
 enough to hang that fine sweetheart of yourn, 
 and I'll tell it too, if I'm shot fur it." 
 
 "He has gone," said Laurie; "none of us will 
 ever see him again — I think." 
 
 "Well, thar's whar you make a mistake 
 miss; the others is gone, I reck'n, but Mar- 
 lowe's a hangin' roun' here to git a chance to 
 see you 'fore he goes." 
 
 Her listlessness was gone in an instant; 
 she started up and a bright flush of color 
 leapt to her cheeks. "How do you know? 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I43 
 
 where is he?" she questioned him eagerly. 
 
 "Don't tell no more lies, Hank Staples," 
 interposed Aunt Viney; "nobody would'n be- 
 lieve numn you say cep'n they knowed it 'fore- 
 han'." 
 
 "What do you say to that, young lady?" 
 said Hank, turning to Laurie. "Is them your 
 sentiments?' 
 
 "Oh, Hank, let us be friends." All at once 
 life seemed worth living again, and she offered 
 her hand in token of friendship. 
 
 He misunderstood her, seized her hand 
 eagerly and drew her to him-, attempting to 
 kiss her. 
 
 She retreated with a scream toward Aunt 
 Viney. 
 
 "Oh, mammy! do not let him touch me! 
 the wretch!" 
 
 "G' way fum yere ! you miser'ble white trash, 
 or I break you' head wid de tongs!" shouted 
 Aunt Viney, putting one arm around Laurie, 
 and seizing the aforesaid article with the 
 other. 
 
 "All right — all right, ladies," called out Mr. 
 Staples, who had rapidly retreated to the door; 
 
144 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "ef you want us to be enemies that suits me 
 jest as well;" and with an oath upon his lips 
 he left the house. He went home with thoughts 
 more bitter than ever against Marlowe; he 
 knew now how Laurie loved his rival, but he 
 did not despair of winning her yet. That 
 night he walked to the house of Sheriff Ben- 
 son, about half a mile from the town. It was 
 about ten o'clock when he was admitted. 
 After some preliminary conversation Hank 
 said, "Sheriff, you got a warrant fur the arrest 
 of all the men what was with the major the 
 night he was killed?" 
 
 "Yes," said the sheriff, "for all and each of 
 them, and one for you too." — It was bedtime 
 and he wished his visitor to go; — "I've had 
 my eye on you ever since Monday." 
 
 "What you got a warrant fur me fur? I 
 ain't done nothin'." 
 
 "Perhaps not, but we shall need you as a 
 witness." 
 
 "S'posen it should turn out that I was with 
 the boys when the old man was killed, and 
 saw the whole perceedin' ?" 
 
 "Then you would be particeps criminis in 
 the murder." 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I45 
 
 "Golly! I wouldn't like to be that; how 
 long would a fellow have to go to jail fur that?" 
 
 "That depends." 
 
 "Say, sheriff, give me a chaw tobaccer." 
 
 The plug was handed hi 
 
 "Would you like to ketch one of them fel- 
 lows, sheriff?" 
 
 "That's my business— that's, what these 
 warrants are for." 
 
 "All right; I'll put you on the track of one 
 of 'em to-night, if you'll promise to keep me 
 outen any trouble." 
 
 If you become state's evidence of course 
 you'll be protected; but, Hank, you are such 
 a liar it wouldn't be worth while to follow 
 any clew you would set us on." 
 
 "You jist wait, and see ef I don't show you 
 one of 'em purty soon." 
 
 "All right then," continued the sheriff; he 
 began to think perhaps there was something 
 in the fellow's head more than he had told on 
 Monday. "If we catch your man I'll give you 
 two hundred, — that's the reward that's of- 
 fered; and if it's a false alarm I'll lock you up 
 for a month. Do you agree to that?" 
 
 "Give me a drink o' whisky, sheriff." 
 
I46 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 The whisky was ordered and when the 
 negro boy brought it, the sheriff said to him: 
 "Jim, go over to Mr. Bob Terry's and tell him 
 to come here right away." 
 
 Mr. Staples helped himself and said: "Sheriff, 
 s'posen I was to prove — I aint swearin' now, 
 am I?" 
 
 "No, I'll tell you when you are in danger." 
 
 "S'posen I could prove who killed the old 
 man, could you pertect me from the law, and 
 the friends of the feller what done it?" 
 
 "I think I could." 
 
 "Well, then, I'll think it over;" taking an- 
 other sip from his glass of whisky. "Why, 
 Bob, how're you? You must a come on a run. 
 It's a good thing you come, Bob, far we'll 
 want some fighters in the crowd to-night; 
 I'm a goin' to 'stonish this yere town fur 
 oncet." 
 
 "Terry," said the sheriff, "I want you to 
 swear Mr. Staples and take his testimony." 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Terry, "got a statement to 
 make, eh?" 
 
 Hank's answer was a shrewd wink of his left 
 eye. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I47 
 
 Deponent took the oath and proceeded: 
 "Las' night I followed Unc' Ben down to the 
 swamp; I thought he was looking fur some 
 'possum traps what he had thar las' winter; 
 and I thought I mought as well find out whar 
 they wuz; when he got down close to the 
 river bank he gin a little whistle and what 
 yer think come to meet him!" 
 
 "What! you don't mean to say he's raising 
 a litter o' pups in the swamp?" 
 
 "No 'twarnt no dog," resumed Hank solemn- 
 ly, "it were a man!" 
 
 "Go on," said Terry. 
 
 "The man jumped in the river with his 
 clothes all on, and swum over to Unc' Ben. 
 I crep' up close as I could, 'thout bein' seen, 
 and listened to what they wuz sayin'. The 
 long and short of it was that Unc' Ben was to 
 fix up things so's Marlowe (that's who 'twas) 
 could come up to-night at one o'clock and see 
 Laurie McNaughton. He kep a sayin' ef he 
 could see her, he knowed he could git her to 
 go with him; and ef she wouldn't then he'd git 
 away fur good and she'd never see him again." 
 
 "At one o'clock to-night!" exclaimed the 
 
I48 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 sheriff. "That will do, Hank;" he said sternly 
 and rose from the table. "If this turns out 
 to be true, you will get your two hundred 
 dollars" — (he might have said "your revenge 
 too.") "Come, gentlemen." 
 
 The three went out together, and summon- 
 ing three others, the sheriff had them take 
 their revolvers and proceed to the vicinity of 
 the McNaughton house. They were posted 
 in convenient places commanding every exit 
 from the house, and Hank Staples was to give 
 them notice when the game was to be trapped. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 At an hour past midnight a tapping was 
 heard at the window of the dining-room of the 
 McNaughton house. It was a low, cautious 
 rap, and Aunt Viney went softly to the win- 
 dow, and looked out. There was no moon 
 and the window was very high from the 
 ground, the house being a typical Southern 
 one, built high and enclosed with a sort of 
 lattice work, in order to let the air blow under 
 it. She saw the figures of men on the ground, 
 but could not at first distinguish them. One 
 of them kept in the shadow of some lilac 
 bushes. 
 
 "Who's dar?" she inquired in that high 
 whisper which says so plainly, "I'm scared; 
 but you shan't know it." 
 
 "It's Unc' Ben, don't be skeered;" an- 
 swered the familiar voice, also in a whisper. 
 
 " 'Fore Gawd!" ejaculated Aunt Viney. 
 
 "What yer doin' yere dis time o' night?" 
 149 
 
I5O A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "Hesh, Sis' Viney — talk low; I's got 
 Honey's sweetheart wid me." 
 
 " 'Fore Gawd!" she said again; which was 
 her ultimatum of astonishment — "Mas'r Wal- 
 ter, dat you?" 
 
 "Yes," was the answer, as the other form 
 stepped out into the lighted space. "I must 
 see Laurie now; I have not a minute to spare; 
 tell her I must speak with her for one mo- 
 ment." 
 
 "Well, ef you's cum back to clar yo'self 
 it'll be all right, an' why can't you wait tell 
 in de mornin', fur to see her? Dis ain't no 
 time fur a gem 'man to call on a young lady." 
 
 "No, Sis' Viney," spoke up Uncle Ben, "de 
 young mas'r's in danger an' he ain't got no 
 time to stay; ef he don' see her to-night, he 
 ain't gwine to see her no mo'." 
 
 "Yes," said Walter, coming closer and look- 
 ing up, so that even in the uncertain light 
 she saw how pale his face was, "that is true; 
 I cannot stay till morning; for God's sake, go, 
 quickly !" 
 
 "Oh, my Lawd, come in den," she groaned, 
 disappearing from the window and opening 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I5I 
 
 the door; "but keep quiet, so's not to skeer 
 de chile; you wait yere tell I goes an' wake 
 her up kin' o' gentle like." 
 
 Marlowe and Uncle Ben entered silently. 
 When Aunt Viney opened the door of Laurie's 
 room, she found the girl still kneeling where 
 she had fallen asleep worn out, with a prayer 
 upon her lips. A light shadow of slumber 
 had overtaken her and her head had fallen 
 forward; her arms were stretched out across 
 the bed. 
 
 The old woman raised a soft, curling strand 
 of hair and kissed it, bending over her lovingly. 
 
 Laurie, roused by the light touch, started 
 up, a frightened look in her wide-opened 
 eyes. 
 
 "Now don' you be skeered, Honey," Aunt 
 Viney began; "somebody's come." 
 
 The girl swept past her like a bird; in a 
 moment she had crossed the hallway and 
 reached the room where Walter stood. She 
 paused an instant in the doorway; the room 
 was in obscurity and she could not discern his 
 whereabouts. 
 
 He called her name and stepping into the 
 
152 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 dim light of the window held out his arms to 
 her; in a moment she was clasped in their 
 embrace. He had thought to kneel and sue 
 for grace to speak to her, and here she was 
 upon his breast, as in the morning when he 
 had gone from her with high hopes in his 
 heart. Old Ben bowed his head and wept in 
 the shadow. 
 
 Her face was hidden on her lover's breast, 
 his arms clasping her close, close to his heart. 
 
 She did not see that the right arm was 
 bandaged, and that he moved it with great 
 pain. He was there with his arms about her, 
 that was enough. The precious minutes were 
 flying fast, but neither could find heart to 
 speak. The emotion of meeting made silence 
 between them. 
 
 He bent his head in a heart-broken gesture 
 and touched her hair lightly with his lips. 
 
 "Oh! Walter," she sobbed, after a little, 
 "I have been so unhappy; why did you stay 
 away from me ? They brought him home white 
 and dead, Walter; and people said you were 
 with his murderers; but you will tell them 
 who did the cruel thing — that it was not you; 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 53 
 
 you will tell them to-morrow, won't you, 
 Walter?" 
 
 She raised her head and looked closely into 
 his eyes in the abandon of her excitement. 
 
 He turned from the intense gaze for an in- 
 stant, and clenched his teeth in the agony of 
 his soul. "Listen, Laurie — my darling, my 
 love;" he cried in a passionate voice, kneel- 
 ing at her feet and pressing her hands to his 
 lips — "I cannot clear myself; I cannot say it 
 was not I; forgive me, dear, if you can; be 
 patient and listen to me a little. I tried — upon 
 my honor, I tried to keep my promise to you 
 that terrible day, but circumstances were 
 hard against me." 
 
 He felt her hands grow cold within his and 
 tremble; he looked up and saw a spasm of 
 fear cross her face. 
 
 "O Walter, Walter, what do you mean? 
 O, you were all the world to me! What do 
 you mean by what you are saying?" 
 
 "My darling, it means that if you love me, 
 if I am more to you than aught else, as you 
 say, you will come with me to-night —now, 
 without a moment's delay, and trust in me. 
 
154 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 I can explain nothing now — I am bound by 
 my word of honor to keep silent. Try to trust 
 me, Laurie, and come before it is too late; I 
 am in danger if I stay a minute too long; 
 Uncle Ben has been to my stables and brought 
 fast horses for us to ride; they are waiting for 
 us down in the swamp road; come, love, let 
 us go." 
 
 He had risen and was gently urging her 
 towards the door; his eyes glittered with ex- 
 citement; she yielded to the fascination of 
 his voice and was allowing herself to be led 
 when old Viney's voice called from out of the 
 obscurity of the room, "Don' yo' go, Honey, 
 don' you go, till he tell yo'who tuk an' killed 
 yo' pa." 
 
 The voice brought her back to the present; 
 she drew her hands from his grasp and stood 
 wringing them in helpless misery. 
 
 "O Walter, I cannot go;" she cried; "if 
 you are innocent stay here and defend your- 
 self." 
 
 "You think me guilty?" 
 
 "O, no,. no, forgive me; I do not believe 
 it; but tell me who it was that Killed my dear 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 55 
 
 father; I know it was not you; only tell me 
 with your own lips that you had no hand in 
 that cruel deed, and I will not ask you any- 
 thing more; I will go with you, and I will be- 
 lieve you though all the world should swear 
 that you were guilty." 
 
 "No, Laurie, I cannot; but no one will 
 ever swear that I am guilty, we have already 
 sworn to be silent. I have no choice, for 
 every man will keep that oath, would have 
 his tongue burned out before he would turn 
 state's evidence." 
 
 He took her hand again, and drew her 
 towards the door. Once more she implored 
 him: 
 
 "O Walter, I will not ask you to tell on 
 the others; only tell me that it was not you." 
 
 "I cannot!" 
 
 "You cannot say that? Then God forgive 
 you, Walter!" 
 
 He stepped toward her again, and for the 
 first time she saw the bandages on his arm, 
 and that there were stains of blood still upon 
 them. 
 
 "Look! Look!" she shrieked, cowering in 
 
156 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 terror on Aunt Viney's breast, "the blood on 
 your arm!" 
 
 Aunt Viney caught the falling figure in her 
 arms and turned angrily upon Marlowe. 
 
 "Go 'way now, ef you's satisfied!" she cried, 
 "You's done broke my baby's heart, you is!" 
 
 "All is over now," he cried, unheeding the 
 old woman's words and taking the little 
 nerveless hand in his; "she will forget me, or 
 think of me only with horror. Take care of 
 her, — I cannot stay, maybe lean come again; 
 I do not know; if not, good-bye — O my dar- 
 ling, good-bye forever!" 
 
 Uncle Ben came up from his post of obser- 
 vation and touched Marlowe on the arm, say- 
 ing something to him quickly in a whisper. 
 He hurried to the door and flung it open; too 
 late — every avenue of escape was guarded by 
 men with pistols cocked and ready to receive 
 him. 
 
 He saw that retreat was impossible, and 
 walked out upon the balcony determined to 
 sell his life as dearly as possible. He was 
 driven to desperation at last. He recognized 
 Hank Staples skulking behind the other men, 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 157 
 
 and knew that he was the informant who had 
 betrayed him. He drew his revolver with his 
 left hand, and aimed it at his enemy; but 
 Uncle Ben was close at his side, and before 
 he could fire, pulled down his arm. 
 
 "Stop, Mas'r Walter!" cried the old fellow 
 clinging to him with both hands; "does you 
 want to die a murderer's def anyhow fur 
 killin' dat trash? Tink o' Honey — tink o' yo' 
 folks, an' wait — de Lawd, he gwine to bring 
 it all right— 'deed he will!" 
 
 After the first impulse of wrath at behold- 
 ing his old enemy — the man who had pre- 
 sumed to love Laurie — among his captors, he 
 felt the other impulse revive in him, to live 
 for her sake, even yet. He delivered his 
 weapons to the sheriff, and submitted quietly 
 to arrest. When Laurie recovered conscious- 
 ness, he was gone. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 There was never a case in the county of 
 N — that created so much excitement as that 
 in which Walter Marlowe was tried for the 
 murder of Marshall McNaughton. 
 
 There were few who believed him person- 
 ally guilty. His manner nonplused his own 
 counsel. His mother sent a message from 
 her sick room, imploring him to make the 
 best defense he could; and it would be hard 
 to describe poor Laurie's agony of mind, 
 when she discovered that she had detained 
 him by her indecision and caused him to be 
 captured. It soon transpired that the strange 
 silence of the prisoner was in accordance with 
 the oath of the "M. K's," to which all of the 
 missing party had belonged; and this strange 
 oath might still have accomplished its end, 
 but for an element they had not counted up- 
 on — Hank Staples and his enmity. 
 
 The circumstances that looked so hard 
 
 153 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 59 
 
 against Marlowe, his refusal to make an ex- 
 planation, and the high standing he held in 
 the community, created such a perfect bal- 
 ance in the jury's mind, that it only required 
 a touch to turn them to the one side or the 
 other. Hank Staples' testimony was, in the 
 absence of any other, sufficient to turn the 
 scale against the accused. 
 
 In the meantime, the interest for and against 
 the young man was working up the citizens 
 of C — to a white heat of excitement. As the 
 time of trial drew on the animosity between 
 the two factions became more marked. The 
 blue blood of the state was feverish. Old 
 men who had not carried a weapon for years 
 took their derringers from the drawer when 
 they went into town. 
 
 Ladies who had been close friends quar- 
 reled over the reputation of the men under 
 indictment, and became enemies. The pris- 
 oner was the only one who had nothing to 
 say. 
 
 His silence alienated many of the disinter- 
 ested who had expected that he would speedily 
 clear himself. 
 
l6o A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 The heart-broken mother, pale and ema- 
 ciated, came to the prison every day, as soon 
 as she was able. She denounced her own 
 conduct towards him during the past months 
 and humbled her pride, promising to make 
 reparation to the orphan girl, and receive her 
 as his wife with all kindness, if he would only 
 defend himself — to all of which he could only 
 reply, turning away, his heart sick within 
 him: 
 
 "I cannot! I cannot!" 
 
 Laurie came, too, and it was a kind of relief 
 when the day of trial drew near, for he felt 
 unable to endure their entreaties longer. 
 
 Dr. Marlowe said to him, "My son, if this 
 is any foolish punctilio which is sealing your 
 lips, remember the pain it is giving your 
 mother and the girl who loves you; but, if 
 you feel that your honor is really pledged to 
 this course, then remember only that a man 
 must be always a Christian and a gentleman." 
 
 It grew to be a matter of much speculation 
 whether he would speak or not; and with the 
 citizens in this state of mind, the appointed 
 time for the trial drew on. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOT l6l 
 
 The afternoon sun was striking a few bars 
 of gold through the grating of Marlowe's pris- 
 on, when the door opened and let in a blaze 
 of light. The prisoner started up and raised 
 his hand to shade his eyes from the unwonted 
 glare. The door had closed again before he 
 knew who had entered; by that time, Carlo's 
 paws were upon his breast and a silky head 
 close to his own; then he saw his mother and 
 Laurie come towards him, and he knew they 
 had come to make their last appeal against 
 his resolve. 
 
 They begged him to promise that he would 
 speak to-morrow, and name the murderer. 
 He was worn out with the conflict of emotions 
 and felt that he could endure no more. 
 
 "Dear mother — dear Laurie;" he said, tak- 
 ing a hand of each, and turning his weary eyes 
 from one to the other — "you do not know 
 what you are doing; listen to me; what you 
 urge me to do, I tell you, for the hundredth 
 time, is impossible; I have no option in the 
 matter; I am bound by a bond which every 
 man holds sacred, to keep silent, and let 
 things go as they will; I can do nothing. Do 
 
 // 
 
l62 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 not urge me any more. Let us hope for the 
 best, it cannot be that you innocent ones 
 are to suffer much more for me." 
 
 He did not feel the confidence he attempted 
 to inspire the women with, and his mother 
 was not deceived. 
 
 "And what of this bond?" she cried excit- 
 edly; "is there no bond between you and me, 
 that forbids a son to break his mother's heart? 
 And this girl whom you have said you loved, 
 — do you owe more to that foolish oath than 
 to her? Beware, boy, how you trample upon 
 your mother's prayer! Look! my pride is 
 crushed, I kneel to you." 
 
 She was half beside herself with her mental 
 and bodily suffering. She fell upon her knees, 
 sobbing hysterically. 
 
 "And so do I!" cried Laurie, kneeling also; 
 "Have pity on us, dear Walter, and save your- 
 self for our sake — we love you so." 
 
 He sprang up, pale as death, and turned 
 his face to the wall; it was the first time he 
 had broken down. He folded his arms against 
 the stone wall, and bowed his head upon 
 them. He had thought this conflict over, and 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 163 
 
 here was the worst ordeal to come yet. For 
 an instant, he was almost ready to sacrifice 
 everything to those two women who loved 
 him — and then, swift as lightning, came the 
 after thought — would one of the others break 
 that oath of the mid-knights, foolish as it had 
 been to take it? 
 
 He felt that they would not; it had been a 
 point of honor with them so long; and should 
 he be the first to break it? How could he ever 
 meet one of them in after years with such a 
 shadow upon him? No, it was wrong, per- 
 haps, to take that pledge, but having taken it 
 he must keep it to the end. He was silent 
 so long they thought they had gained their 
 point. The mother came to him and touched 
 his elbow — "Have you decided?" she asked 
 tremulously — "think of it, they will send you 
 back to prison, and disgrace you, perhaps. O! 
 God! they will hang you, if you do not speak, 
 do not tell them that it was not you. No one 
 will suffer by it; they are far away and will 
 never return; why should you bear it all?" 
 
 "O, mother, mother!" he murmured, turn- 
 ing to her and raising her hands to his lips; 
 
164 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "think of it ? Have I not thought of it through 
 long days and sleepless nights? Would you 
 have me the spectacle of all men, as the one 
 who could not keep faith? It would kill me, 
 mother; I could not live it down." 
 
 "And it will kill me if you do not," she 
 cried, growing excited again; "it shall not be! 
 You shall not refuse me this. Have I not lived 
 for you? Your youth, your future is mine, boy, 
 and you shall not sacrifice it to an idle scru- 
 ple!" 
 
 Laurie sat upon the prison bench, one hand 
 clasped above the other on her knee, a pict- 
 ure of speechless misery. She remembered 
 the night when he had pleaded with her as 
 they now pleaded with him, and to no avail. 
 
 They heard the jailer approaching, and they 
 had accomplished nothing. 
 
 "They are coming, girl," said the elder wo- 
 man, shaking Laurie roughly by the shoulder; 
 "have you nothing to say? He refuses his 
 mother, perhaps he will listen to you." 
 
 The girl came forward, and raised her sad 
 face to him; he took both her hands in his, 
 and looked long into her eyes. "Do you still 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 165 
 
 refuse?" his mother asked, with something of 
 her old imperious manner. It angered her 
 that she could not bend him to her will. 
 
 "Dear, won't you promise?" whispered 
 Laurie. 
 
 "Anything but that, my darling," he said 
 once more, his voice tremulous with pain; "if 
 I were base enough for that, I would not de- 
 serve your love. Do not urge me, dear love, 
 I cannot do it." 
 
 The jailer entered, and they took their 
 leave; the mother had broken down again, 
 and was weeping bitterly; Laurie passed her 
 arm around her, and they went away together, 
 the dog, after a caress and a word from the 
 master, following. "Let us be brave, and hope 
 for the best," he said to them, and tried to 
 maintain a steady countenance until they 
 were gone; then threw himself on his cot, 
 and lay there with his face buried in his hands, 
 enduring the agonies of an utter despair, 
 until the man entered with the evening meal. 
 He saw no way out of his hopeless situation. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The third day of the trial had begun, Judge 
 Napier presiding. Through many years of 
 public service on the judicial bench he had 
 won the name of an incorruptible judge. 
 
 It was a mark of the people's confidence in 
 his integrity that he was desired to remain 
 in his place during this trial, though his own 
 son had been one of the prisoner's compan- 
 ions. He offered to resign his seat to Judge 
 Carter of an adjoining county, but at the gen- 
 eral solicitation had kept it. 
 
 Accordingly, the venerable judge sat and 
 heard the case, ruling with the utmost im- 
 partiality, until all the circumstantial evidence 
 had been well discussed by both sides. A 
 shrewd query put by the state's counsel had 
 elicited a piece of testimony very damaging to 
 the prisoner. Dr. Marlowe was asked upon 
 the stand if there had ever been, to his knowl- 
 edge, any ill feeling between the accused and 
 16G 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 167 
 
 his mother on account of the former's connec- 
 tion with the McNaughtons. He was obliged 
 to testify that there had been some estrange- 
 ment from that cause. 
 
 "Had it been on account of the girl's dis- 
 sipated father, that the lady had objected to 
 receiving her as her son's wife?" 
 
 He was again compelled to say that it was; 
 and, seeing how this testimony would affect 
 the case, the old man's face blanched with 
 dismay. He attempted to qualify his answer, 
 but the examining lawyer said curtly, "That 
 is sufficient," and the minister was dismissed 
 from the stand. 
 
 The point was a telling one and he made 
 the most of it. "Here at last," he said, turn- 
 ing triumphantly to the jury, "we have the 
 motive; surely, this is conclusive." 
 
 The testimony created a sensation, and af- 
 ter that, things began to look more and more 
 dark for the defendant. 
 
 The witnesses for the defense had all testi- 
 fied to the prisoner's high standing, to his in- 
 tegrity and truthfulness in the past; also the 
 two old servants of the McNaughtons testified 
 
l68 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 to the amicable relations always existing be- 
 tween the accused and their deceased master, 
 but there was no positive evidence to be given 
 on his behalf. 
 
 At last Mr. Hank Staples was called. He 
 repeated substantially what he had said at the 
 coroner's inquest, only many things that he 
 then implied, he now openly asserted. 
 
 "You stated at the inquest," began the 
 state's attorney, "that after you heard hard 
 words between the prisoner and deceased, you 
 escaped to the opposite side of the river and 
 saw nothing more of them during the night; 
 where did you go immediately afterward?" 
 
 "I told a lie when I said that," said Hank, 
 bringing a shock of surprise to his hearers. 
 
 "Why did you lie to the coroner?" 
 
 "I was afeard the boys would kill me ef I 
 testified agin 'em." 
 
 "Why are you not still afraid?" 
 
 "Wall, the sheriff 'lowed as they'd all left 
 the country cep'n Marlowe an' Iknowedhe'd 
 be hung ef I tol' the truth." 
 
 "Well, will you proceed and tell us what 
 occurred the night of the murder?" 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 169 
 
 Witness then stated that although he had 
 left the party at the time of the accident, he 
 still kept them in sight, because he felt that 
 his friend the major was being imposed upon; 
 that he heard the voices of Marlowe and the 
 major in an angry altercation. He crept closer 
 to the speakers, who had drawn a little apart 
 from the others. He heard enough to under- 
 stand that the prisoner was trying to persuade 
 the major to leave C — and promise not to 
 return and disgrace him and Laurie; and was 
 offering him a high price to do so. According 
 to his statement, the prisoner had said that 
 he could never take the girl home as his wife 
 until the father was out of the way, and the 
 major had resented this; a scuffle ensued. 
 "An' the next thing I kno.wed," the witness 
 continued, working himself up to a state of 
 enthusiasm, "Marlowe outs with his knife, and 
 I 'lowed he was gwine to kill the ole man, so 
 I rushed in atween 'em; but 'fore I could git 
 thar, he'd done struck the major wunst an' 
 was drawin' back for 'nuther. Then I pulled 
 s nay knife an' made that thar cut what you 
 see on Marlowe's arm," making an awkward, 
 
170 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 left-handed gesture toward the prisoner, who 
 watched him intently but had not been able 
 to catch the orator's eye. 
 
 "Then," he further stated, "all the fellers 
 wuz on to me; and when I got up the ole 
 man wuz dead. They all stood 'round an' 
 made me swar to keep quiet 'bout the whole 
 business. Mr. Holbrook, he sez, sez he, 'Now, 
 Hank Staples, you've swore the oath of the 
 mid-knights, an' ef you don' keep it quiet 
 you'll go whar the major is; don't you forgit 
 that.' Then they let me go, an' so I 'lowed 
 I'd jist better go 'long home an' hoi' my 
 tongue, tell them young college chaps wuz 
 outen the way." 
 
 The witness resumed his seat and still had 
 not looked at the prisoner. Marlowe had 
 understood that this would be the end. 
 
 During the first days of the trial they had 
 placed Laurie in a part of the court-room 
 where he could not see her, but now, as he 
 glanced listlessly around the house, his glance 
 fell upon her where she sat in full view cling- 
 ing to the old nurse's hand. She was leaning 
 forward, her wide eyes fixed upon the pris- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I71 
 
 ooer. The lips were parted and her breath 
 carr ^ heavily through them, but a ray of some- 
 thing almost like hope lighted the sweet little 
 worn face. Their eyes met, and the mute 
 appeal in Laurie's for love, and life, and hap- 
 piness, struck through the despairing calm 
 he had maintained throughout the trial, and 
 pierced him to the heart. 
 
 He bowed his head upon his hand, and the 
 arm that supported it visibly trembled. An 
 agony of temptation swept through him like 
 the breath of the sirocco, fierce and blinding; 
 for a moment he was deaf to the voices, blind 
 to the faces before him. In the light of that 
 look he had caught across the crowded court- 
 room, the vision of a felon's death passed be- 
 fore him with ghastly reality — the loss of all 
 men's respect, of life, of Laurie, appalled him 
 with a sudden new power. 
 
 A voice from some unknown depth in his 
 nature cried out to him, "Speak! speak! be- 
 fore it is too late and your foolish scruple has 
 killed yourself and her." He knew that soon 
 another chance would be given him, and the 
 eternal question put to him for the last time, 
 "guilty" or "not guilty." 
 
172 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 It seemed such a little thing to do; only to 
 speak and turn the accusation against some 
 other member of the party, and he would be 
 acquitted. All the other men were out of 
 harm's way, and would probably never be 
 affected one iota, so far as their liberty was 
 concerned, by his act. He had never been so 
 near yielding. 
 
 Then came the other voice with its unvary- 
 ing reply: "Yes, speak, and you will save 
 all— but honor!" It was the still voice, but 
 for the thousandth time it conquered. That 
 "honor" he must keep though all his world 
 were lost for it. Exaggerated as his idea of 
 it was, perhaps, that idol "honor" had ruled 
 his life, and must rule his death if need be; 
 denuded of all youth clings to, of respect, 
 of love, and joy, still, that abstract of his 
 boyish worship lured him in the face of shame, 
 disgrace and death. "It was my sin," he said, 
 "to take lightly upon my lips a solemn oath; it 
 is my punishment that I must fulfill it to the 
 letter, or hide my face from the sight of men 
 forever." 
 
 When Marlowe raised his head again he 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 173 
 
 felt he had lived a lifetime of doubt and con- 
 flict, but had escaped a great fall, worse than 
 death. The cold sweat of agony was damp 
 upon his hands and forehead. He breathed 
 again, and those near him wondered to hear 
 him utter a deep "Thank God!" 
 
 He turned his eyes again to the witness- 
 stand, and for a moment it was impossible 
 for him to comprehend what he saw; there 
 stood Laurie, her face, from which every 
 vestage of color had faded, even to the lips, 
 fixed upon the defendant's lawyer who was 
 examining her. Her hands were clasped be- 
 fore her in the effort to still their trembling. 
 It had been agreed by the prosecution that 
 she should not be summoned as a witness, 
 and Marlowe had pleaded with his own lawyer 
 that it should not be done. Then he realized 
 that the astute lawyer had duped him, and 
 brought her forward as a last resource. 
 
 In fact, the attorney, when his last hope of 
 influencing the prisoner to make a statement 
 had vanished, called upon Laurie and ex- 
 plained that his forlorn remaining hope was 
 that Marlowe might have confessed something 
 
174 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 to her in his extremity. Her manner con- 
 vinced him that he was right; it was at that 
 moment, perhaps, she had taken her resolve. 
 
 Marlowe wondered what it all meant. 
 What good could her testimony do? Then 
 the examination continued, and he realized 
 that what he would not stoop to do for him- 
 self, she was going to do for him. 
 
 Her unexpected appearance on the stand 
 had created a sensation; to see her standing 
 there so frail-looking and terrified by the stern 
 surroundings while he sat helpless, was almost 
 more than he could bear. 
 
 "You say you saw the prisoner on the night 
 of his arrest; for what purpose did he return 
 to see you?" 
 
 Her lips parted to answer, but the words 
 were inaudible. The lawyer changed the 
 form of his query: "Was that the first time 
 you had seen the prisoner after your father's 
 death?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What was the object of his visit?" 
 
 "He wanted me to go with him." 
 
 "Did you refuse to do so?" 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 175 
 
 "I refused at first." 
 
 "Why did you refuse?" 
 
 "Because I — because they had said he was 
 with the murderers." 
 
 "Did you believe him guilty of your father's 
 murder?" 
 
 "I did not believe him guilty, but begged 
 him to tell me that he was not." 
 
 "Did you make that a condition of your 
 going with him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you beg that he would confide to you 
 alone the name of the guilty one?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What was his reply to this?" 
 
 In his anticipated triumph the lawyer drew 
 forth this testimony word for word and failed 
 to see what all the others saw, that the wit- 
 ness was on the point of fainting. 
 
 He paused to make a note of her evidence, 
 and she glanced at the prisoner. Her eyes 
 fell before his, and a burning blush mounted 
 to her forehead. It was the supreme mo- 
 ment of her life; the last hope for the defense 
 hung upon her answer. She stood support- 
 
176 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 ing herself by one hand upon the railing, the 
 other she clasped in the folds of her dress. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the floor. 
 
 The counsel, now sure of her reply, repeat- 
 ed the question in his kindest tone, trying to 
 reassure her. 
 
 "Did the prisoner then comply with your re- 
 quest?" 
 
 Another painful silence; then a strange thing 
 happened — the girl threw up her arms in a 
 wild gesture and a bitter, wailing "No! No! 
 No!" escaped her. Truth had triumphed, for 
 her strength had not been equal to her love. 
 
 From that moment the prisoner's doom was 
 sealed. 
 
 By tacit agreement the pitiable episode 
 was passed over in silence. Sympathy for her 
 in the court-room amounted almost to agony. 
 The case was taken up where Hank Staples' 
 testimony had left it. 
 
 Turning to the jury, the prosecuting attorney 
 said, "Gentlemen of the jury, fortunately 
 you will not be under the unpleasant neces- 
 sity of convicting the prisoner on purely cir- 
 cumstantial evidence, strong as it is in this 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 77 
 
 case. This witness, Mr. Staples, being for- 
 merly in mortal fear of the violence of these 
 young men, in whose company he was on that 
 fatal night, for that reason has kept back im- 
 portant evidence to shield them, but now 
 being troubled in conscience, and moved by 
 the promptings of duty, he has come forward 
 and given you a detailed account of this most 
 atrocious assassination !" 
 
 The witness, sitting in his place, was so 
 strangely affected by the unwonted experi- 
 ence of hearing himself well spoken of, that 
 he had to pinch his ear to convince himself 
 that he was not dreaming. 
 
 The mother of the prisoner, now utterly 
 prostrated since her last visit to the prison, 
 was confined to her bed, and delirium inter- 
 posed to save her from the scene which was 
 so soon to take place in the court-room, with 
 her idolized son as the central figure. 
 
 The prisoner was asked again if he wished 
 to say anything in his own defense. 
 
 "I have nothing to say," he answered. 
 
 "Is the court to understand that you plead 
 guilty?" inquired the judge. 
 
 12 
 
I78 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 "I cannot say what the court understands. " 
 
 "Is not that a virtual confession that you 
 were either the murderer, or accessory there- 
 to?" 
 
 "I confess nothing."" 
 
 "Do you deny it?" 
 
 "I deny nothing." 
 
 The judge knitted his brows, and was puz- 
 zled as to what action to take. He had sin- 
 cerely hoped that the young fellow would be 
 tempted to speak out, and say something in 
 his own behalf. It cut him deeply to see 
 matters going against him, though none would 
 have guessed his feelings from his face. 
 
 Thus the three days were occupied by the 
 lawyers for and against the accused. Many 
 chapters of florid rhetoric were furnished to 
 the village newspaper and the eager listeners 
 in the court-room, before the jury retired. 
 
 The solemn, thrilling words of the judge, 
 as he gave them their final charge, and 
 brought home to them the awful nature of 
 their responsibility, not one of those twelve 
 men ever forgot. 
 
 The tension of feeling in the court-room 
 during that speech was painful. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 1 79 
 
 Three days more were consumed before they 
 could come to a verdict. They had the her- 
 culean task of separating their instinctive 
 liking for the prisoner, and their distrust of 
 the witness Hank Staples, from the evidence, 
 as it really stood from a legal point of view. 
 It was hard for them to be obliged to take 
 this fellow's evidence against a gentleman; 
 but in the strange nature of the case, his was 
 the only direct evidence produced by the trial, 
 and there was nothing brought out by the de- 
 fense which could antagonize it. The circum- 
 stances all coincided with it perfectly. Few 
 people in the world would have suspected 
 Hank Staples of ingenuity enough (even had 
 they known his motive) to concoct this plan 
 of evidence to suit the circumstances. In so 
 much had they underrated him. The wound 
 in Marlowe's arm, the failure of the prisoner 
 to account for it otherwise, all were argu- 
 ments in favor of the prosecution, which it 
 was impossible for the jury, in accordance 
 with their oath, to ignore, and after a long 
 battle with themselves, they finally brought 
 in their verdict. 
 
l8o A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 It was: "Guilty of murder." 
 
 The prisoner was then asked in the usual 
 formula, "Have you anything to say why 
 sentence should not be pronounced upon you 
 according to law?" 
 
 Again he answered: 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 Marlowe had risen to receive his sentence. 
 The whole body of listeners held its breath 
 in one emotion of intense anxiety. In the 
 court his friends vastly predominated. The 
 love story of Walter and little Laurie 
 McNaughton had been cruelly dragged into 
 public view, and the pity of it all — Marlowe's 
 pale face, Laurie's somber mourning, and 
 above all, the extreme youth and beauty of 
 both — went straight to the heart of every 
 woman, and many men, in the house 
 
 Judge Napier arose amid the breathless 
 hush, and stepped forward. For the first 
 time in his life, he had not been able to form 
 an opinion in his own mind as to the inno- 
 cence or guilt of the accused, but in his 
 stanch old heart he loved him for the manly 
 courage that refused to criminate his com- 
 panions, — which the avowal of his own inno- 
 cence would of course do. He looked at the 
 181 
 
l82 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 young fellow, standing there in jeopardy of his 
 life, yet refusing to stoop or purchase mercy. 
 
 He thought of the days when Walter and 
 his own beloved boy had played together in 
 school-boy comradeship; and the contrast of 
 this youth standing up to face, perhaps, the 
 consequences of their common misdeeds, and 
 his own Harry hiding his head, a fugitive from 
 the law, smote the proud man deeply, and for 
 a moment he almost envied the broken old 
 white-haired minister his son. 
 
 It was the same temper that spoke in the 
 actions of these three men — the Southern 
 character in its best estate. The youth who 
 would not buy his safety with dishonor, the 
 father who would not urge his son to a cow- 
 ardly act though the result was hastening his 
 gray hairs to the grave, and the judge who 
 did honor to the magnificent heroism of the 
 young man, while he pronounced the inevita- 
 ble verdict upon his legally proven act. 
 
 The judge paused for the briefest instant, 
 then addressed the prisoner by name. 
 
 Marlowe returned his look unflinchingly, 
 though a bright flush rose to his face, and 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 183 
 
 faded again, leaving it, if possible, a shade 
 paler than before. He felt the eyes upon 
 him, the eyes of familiar friends and compan- 
 ions of his college days. 
 
 In the dead silence that preceded the next 
 words, the sound of a rider approaching the 
 court-house and abruptly halting was dis- 
 tinctly heard. The next minute a confusion 
 of voices at the door; then, parting the dense 
 throng in a way that belonged to him, the tall 
 form of Harry Napier appeared in the house. 
 He was travel-stained, and his spurred heel 
 on the hard floor made a strange sound in the 
 hush that pervaded the great crowd as he 
 walked up the aisle. 
 
 The judge stood speechless, staring at the 
 apparition. 
 
 The young man approached the judge's 
 bench, and took off his hat; he turned first 
 toward the jury box, then to the house, and 
 in his ringing voice said: "Gentlemen of the 
 court, and you who are interested in the trial 
 of my friend Walter Marlowe for the killing 
 of Major McNaughton, I am here, an unan- 
 nounced witness, with important evidence to 
 
184 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 present, before judgment is pronounced upon 
 the accused. Can I be heard?" 
 
 The thing was irregular and the prosecution 
 demurred, but the abruptness of his entrance 
 had paralyzed all movements for the moment, 
 and overruled authority. 
 
 The judge had resumed his seat, his eyes 
 fixed in a horrible fascination upon his son. 
 A presentiment of coming evil froze his blood. 
 What would the madcap do now? Was he go- 
 ing to take the guilt upon himself to free his 
 friend? The thought benumbed his faculties 
 and he sat like one deprived of his reason. 
 
 A feeling of relief had electrified the house 
 at sight of Napier. At last, they thought, the 
 strange silence would be broken. 
 
 There was a diversion of a few seconds and 
 some one rushed with wild eyes and ashen 
 cheek, from the court-room. It was the wit- 
 ness, Hank Staples, who, when Napier en- 
 tered, found the atmosphere of the room too 
 close for him and made a mad dash for the 
 open air. 
 
 Napier saw his opportunity and took advan- 
 tage of the confusion. He knew this was ir- 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 185 
 
 regular, that his evidence could not be legally 
 taken in this way, but his object was to be 
 heard — only to be heard, at any cost. 
 
 "Honored sir," he continued, turning to 
 the judge, "I am aware that this proceeding 
 does not conform to the customs of this court, 
 but I have evidence to give which will justify 
 the intrusion." 
 
 He drew a folded paper from his breast and 
 glanced hurriedly over it. 
 
 "This paper contains the statement I wish 
 to make." 
 
 The judge still sat speechless gazing at 
 him; the counsel for the prosecution rose to 
 protest, but he would not be silenced. He 
 was desperate and in his rashest mood. 
 
 "One moment," he said, "and I have fin- 
 ished. I am one of the number under indict- 
 ment for the murder of Major McNaughton, 
 and escaped the night the order was issued 
 for our arrest, as I supposed that all the rest 
 had done. A week ago I learned of my friend's 
 arrest ; had I known of his long imprisonment 
 I should have returned sooner." 
 
 Here he looked steadily at the prisoner. 
 
1 86 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 Marlowe returned the look with one which 
 said plainly: "Will you break that oath after 
 all I have suffered to keep it?" 
 
 Napier understood the look and smiled, a 
 strange enigma of a smile — they had loved 
 each other well, these two. He went on 
 rapidly. 
 
 "I did not believe it possible until now that 
 Walter Marlowe could be convicted here upon 
 the evidence of a low-bred scoundrel, though 
 such has been the case. I have been warned 
 by a signal arranged between friends of the 
 prisoner's and mine of the verdict of the jury; 
 I learn that that verdict is a conviction of 
 murder and — I am here." 
 
 A murmur went through the assembly. 
 Would he break the oath? was the excited 
 query now; and all those at all familiar with 
 the time and place where this event was trans- 
 piring, will realize the extreme exaggeration, 
 the exalted and overstrained sentiment which 
 attached to such an oath, and the terrible 
 consequences to the self-respect of the man 
 who should break it. Adherence to the letter 
 of an oath, at any price, was the fetish at 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 187 
 
 whose shrine these young fellows would sac- 
 rifice anything, — excepting a friend, no one 
 had ever been called upon to do that before. 
 
 How would he decide? 
 
 Every eye watched him, every ear hung 
 upon his words. The aged fathers of each of 
 the men sat mute spectators of the scene. 
 
 The prisoner, the witness and the judge 
 were objects of the greatest interest, but the 
 one eye that never left the speaker, was that 
 of the judge. Suddenly he sprang forward 
 with a loud cry and staggered towards his 
 son. 
 
 The young man had raised his hand at the 
 words, "I am here," and the report of a pis- 
 tol shot followed the cry. He had taken the 
 folded paper in his left hand. He fired with 
 the weapon at his temple, and death was in- 
 stantaneous. He fell backward without a con- 
 tortion and died as he had lived, rashly and 
 fearlessly. 
 
 The prisoner started up at the report, with 
 a deep self-anathema upon his lips that he 
 had not foreseen this ending and forestalled 
 it. But the hand of the officer was upon his 
 
1 88 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 shoulder, and he fell back into his seat, real- 
 king the futility of all effort now. 
 
 Harry, the prince, the idol of his fellows, 
 had gone to render his account before another 
 Judge and Father, in the court of Him who 
 gave that wild, ungovernable spirit, and who, 
 alone, could judge it justly. 
 
 The old judge uttered no sound after that 
 first wild cry; he knelt by his son, his hand 
 upon the boy's forehead, pushing the hair 
 back from it and gazing steadily upon the be- 
 loved face. 
 
 They had taken the paper and read its con- 
 tents. Some one touched the old man upon 
 the shoulder. He rose with an abstracted 
 look and adjusted his dress in a mechanical 
 way. He looked about him for an instant, 
 then with something like the ghost of his old 
 manner tottered to his seat. Unbending to 
 the last, he, the judge, would end the matter 
 in the judge's place. 
 
 After some legal forms had been gone 
 through Marlowe's counsel mov$d a suspen- 
 sion of sentence, and the judge announced 
 that it was granted. The accused was re- 
 manded to prison. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The story of Napier's testimony and the 
 change it had wrought in the aspect of Mar- 
 lowe's trial was well known, but the citizens 
 of C — were eager to know the exact substance 
 of it. It was the first morning of the new 
 trial. The same crowd was assembled to hear 
 the end of the strange drama. There was 
 only one familiar face missing; a younger man 
 sat in the stead of the venerable judge whose 
 place should know him no more; that stanch 
 old heart was broken at last. 
 
 There was a whispered conference among 
 the attorneys, and presently, defendant's 
 counsel rose with the fateful paper in his hand. 
 
 "Your Honor," he said, "we have come into 
 
 possession of new evidence in this case, and 
 
 although the manner in which it was received 
 
 is irregular and almost without precedent m 
 
 any court, it is indispensable that it should 
 189 
 
igO A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 be heard. With permission of the counsel 
 for the prosecution, I will read it." 
 
 The lawyer for the state acquiesced and 
 with an unconscious solemnity in his voice, 
 he unfolded the paper and began. 
 
 This was the testimony of Harry Napier: 
 "I solemnly swear, in the name of that God 
 in whose presence I will be when this testi- 
 mony is taken, that the evidence herein con- 
 tained concerning the death of Major 
 McNaughton which occurred on the night of 
 June — th is the whole truth. The people of 
 Q — are familiar with the nature of that oath 
 of the 'mid knights,' which binds all the par- 
 ties in that tragical event to silence; that it 
 is equally binding on the guilty, and on the 
 innocent; and I am confident that not a man 
 among our member would break that oath to 
 save his own life. It has been a matter of 
 pride with us to keep it. 
 
 "The escapade that brought about the trag- 
 edy of that June night, began in mere sport, 
 the real wrong in it being, I now see, in lead- 
 ing the major astray, and using him for out." 
 amusement when confused with rum, but 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE igi 
 
 even of this, I exonerate Marlowe; he was, 
 on that night, and always, the major's true 
 friend. Our party was on the way to escort 
 the old man home, because Marlowe insisted 
 upon doing so, and we were not willing to 
 lose him. 
 
 "Major McNaughton had been drinking 
 heavily. When we attempted to cross the ford 
 of the river near his house, the major's horse — 
 the mare Senora, of whom he was passionately 
 fond — lost her footing, went over the rocks and 
 was killed. When the major, whom Marlowe 
 had rescued from the water, saw the mare 
 was drowning, he attempted to rush in and 
 save her. To do so in his condition, would 
 have been suicide. I put my arms around 
 him and held him back. This rendered him 
 furious and when he saw the horse was gone, 
 he turned and struck me with the whip he 
 carried in his hand. I remember nothing be- 
 tween the insult of those repeated blows, and 
 the motion with which I stabbed him once, 
 twice, and three times. But I exonerate one 
 and all of my companions from having any 
 hand in it whatever. Marlowe received the 
 
ig2 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 wound in his arm in trying to stay my hand. 
 In a moment the deed was done. I besought 
 my companions to leave me and I would bear 
 the consequences of my own deed; but then 
 came the memory of that oath of the 'mid- 
 knights, ' which binds all alike, and we again 
 shook hands and pledged ourselves anew to 
 silence even to the bitter end. 
 
 "To baffle pursuit, we resolved to hold no 
 communication with each other for a year. 
 We did not know of Marlowe's engagement to 
 the major's daughter, nor that he returned to 
 C — after our final parting. I would to God 
 that I had known how matters stood with 
 him, the knowledge might have stayed my 
 hand, even then, when I felt the stinging 
 blows of that man's whip across my face, — I 
 did not know. 
 
 "All this I learned but a few days ago, when, 
 after becoming restless and tired of travel, I 
 returned, and learned also that our plan of 
 mutual silence was rendered worthless by the 
 false witness of Hank Staples, whom we 
 allowed to accompany us that fatal night, 
 merely out of regard for the major's feelings. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE 193 
 
 His evidence is totally false. I do not take 
 this course in the mistaken idea that there is 
 anything heroic in what I do; there is no 
 other way. To have lived to see my friend 
 suffering for my deed, or to go through the 
 world with the infamy of the broken oath 
 would be worse than death. There is one sav- 
 ing clause in the oath of the 'mid-knights;' 
 the last paragraph runs in this way: 
 
 "'In the name of heaven, and in the pres- 
 ence of you my companions, I do solemnly 
 swear that I will never reveal the secrets of 
 this night, so long as I shall live. So help 
 me God!'" 
 
 Below was written the following: 
 
 "Adieu, my friends, forgive but do not for- 
 get me. 
 
 "(Signed.) Harry Napier." 
 
 Then was added a P. S. : 
 
 "I would ask of my friend Walter Marlowe 
 that he will spare no pains to let the others 
 know, wherever they may be wandering over 
 the earth, through their loyalty to their oath 
 and to me, that the price is paid, and the 
 stigma lifted from their names." 
 
194 A MODERN QUIXOTE 
 
 The lawyer finished and a dead silence fol- 
 lowed his words. With that tragic sight of yes- 
 terday fresh in their memory, this parting mes- 
 sage from the dead affected the people deeply. 
 
 The rest was a matter of form only. The 
 state's attorney arose and said: "Your Honor, 
 on the strength of this new evidence, I move 
 a nolle prosequi, that the case be dismissed 
 and the prisoner stand acquitted." 
 
 Marlowe was then pronounced a free man. 
 Friends gathered round him — tearful con- 
 gratulations from the women, the firm grasp 
 of friendship from the men — but all instinct- 
 ively drew back when two old negroes ap- 
 proached through the crowd with a little black- 
 robed figure between them. 
 
 When the brave young fellow who had borne 
 up under so much, saw Laurie coming and, 
 forgetting all else, held out his arms to her, 
 the least delicate of them all felt an impulse 
 to avert the head. Old Ben and Viney sat 
 down upon the floor and wept for joy. 
 
 His mother awaited them, propped upon 
 the pillows of her sick room — into which we 
 may not follow. 
 
A MODERN QUIXOTE I95 
 
 One day when spring had come again, Wal- 
 ter Marlowe and Laurie stood by the grave 
 of Harry Napier. He bared his head while 
 she stooped down and laid a cluster of white 
 blossoms upon the mound — it was her wedding 
 wreath. She was crying softly, but in his 
 face was a look of sorrow too great for such 
 expression. t* 
 
 In the road near by waited the carriage that* 
 was to speed them on their wedding journey. 
 When they looked back again to wave him a 
 last adieu the sunlight struck a golden gleam 
 across the marble headstone, and they knew 
 it was shining on the words their gratitude 
 had carved there: 
 
 "Greater love hath no man than this, that 
 a man lay down his life for his friends." 
 
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