The color crept slowly back into the judge's cheeks, but a
tremulous hand stole up to his throat.
"No, sir--no; my name is Price--Slocum Price! Turberville
--Turberville--" he muttered thickly, staring stupidly at
Carrington.
"It's not a common name; you seem to have heard it before?" said
the latter.
A spasm of pain passed over the judge's face.
"I--I've heard it. The name is on the rifle, you say?"
"Here on the stock, yes."
The judge took the gun and examined it in silence.
"Where did you get this rifle, Hannibal?" he at length asked
brokenly.
"I fetched it away from the Barony, sir; Mr. Crenshaw said I
might have it."
The judge gave a great start, and a hoarse inarticulate murmur
stole from between his twitching lips.
"The Barony--the Barony--what Barony? The Quintard seat in North
Carolina, is that what you mean?"
"Yes," said the boy.
The judge, as though stunned, stared at Hannibal and stared at
the rifle, where the rusted name-plate danced before his eyes.
"What do you know of the Barony, Hannibal?" the words came slowly
from the judge's lips, and his face had gone gray again.
"I lived at the Barony once, until Uncle Bob took me to Scratch
Hill to be with him. It were Mr. Crenshaw said I was to have the
old sp'otin' rifle," said Hannibal.
"You--you lived at the Barony?" repeated the judge, and a dull
stupid wonder struck through his tone, he passed a shaking hand
before his eyes. "How long ago--when?" he continued.
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