``Thought you was--mad at me,'' he answered, ``but you ain't, Davy.You've been very good-natured t' let me have your drum.'' He straightened.``I am ver'
much obliged.
``And where were you before you went to Nashville?''
I said.
``Charleston, 'Napolis...Philadelphia...
everywhere,'' he answered.
``Now,'' said he, `` 'mgoin' t' bed.''
I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carry it out.However, I conducted him to the back room, where he sat himself down on the edge of my four-poster, and after conversing a little longer on the subject of Mr.Jackson (who seemed to have gotten upon his brain), he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on.For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so strongly within me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face.
Spare and handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in its relaxation.Would that relentless spirit with which he had been born make him, too, a wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fates which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other man I loved, George Rogers Clark?
I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle took from my portfolio a packet of letters.Two of them I had not read, having found them only on my return from Philadelphia that morning.They were all signed simply ``Sarah Temple,'' they were dated at a certain number in the Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy in that which it had left unsaid.There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing at fate; the letters breathed but the one hope,--that her son might come again to that happiness of which she had robbed him.There were in all but twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had nearly deprived the lady of the use of her right hand.Iread them twice over, and then, despite the lateness of the hour, I sat staring at the candles, reflecting upon my own helplessness.I was startled from this revery by a knock.
Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking I had to do with some drunken reveller who might be noisy.The knock was repeated.I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night.
``I saw dat light,'' said a voice which I recognized; ``Ithink I come in to say good night.''
I opened the door, and he walked in.
``You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie,'' he said.
``And you seem to prefer the small hours for your visits, Monsieur de St.Gre,'' I could not refrain from replying.
He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade of disappointment passed over his face.I wondered whether he were looking for Nick.He sat himself down in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded me with something less than his usual complacency.
``I have much laik for you, Monsieur Reetchie,'' he began, and waved aside my bow of acknowledgment ``Before I go away from Louisville I want to spik with you,--this is a risson why I am here.You listen to what dat Depeau he say,--dat is not truth.My family knows you, I laik to have you hear de truth.''
He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he was about to make, I could not repress my impatience at the preamble.
``You are my frien', you have prove it,'' he continued.
``You remember las' time we meet?'' (I smiled involuntarily.)``You was in bed, but you not need be ashame'
for me.Two days after I went to France, and I not in New Orleans since.''
``Two days after you saw me?'' I repeated.
``Yaas, I run away.That was the mont' of August, 1789, and we have not then heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attack.I lan' at La Havre,--it is the en'
