"Poor
little lad!" he muttered, and again, "Poor little lad!"
"Never once, sir. He told the slaves to keep him out of his
sight. We-all wondered, fo' you know how niggers will talk. We
thought maybe he was some kin to the Quintards, but we couldn't
figure out how. The old general never had but one child and she
had been dead fo' years. The child couldn't have been hers no
how." Yancy paused.
The judge drummed idly on the desk.
"What implacable hate--what iron pride!" he murmured, and swept
his hand across his eyes. Absorbed and aloof, he was busy with
his thoughts that spanned the waste of yearsyears that seemed to
glide before him in review, each bitter with its hideous memories
of shame and defeat. Then from the smoke of these lost battles
emerged the lonely figure of the child as he had seen him that
June night. His ponderous arm stiffened where it rested on the
desk, he straightened up in his chair and his face assumed its
customary expression of battered dignity, while a smile at once
wistful and tender hovered about his lips.
"One other question," he said. "Until this man Murrell appeared
you had no trouble with Bladen? He was content that you should
keep the child--your right to Hannibal was never challenged?"
"Never, sir. All my troubles began about that time."
"Murrell belongs in these parts," said the judge.
"I'd admire fo' to meet him," said Yancy quietly.
The judge grinned.
"I place my professional services at your disposal," he said.
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