"Colonel Dale, your nephew grossly insulted me, and your daughter showed me the door. I made no defense to him nor to her, but I will to you. I merely repeated what I had been told and I believed it true. Now that I hear it is not true, I agree with you, sir, and I am willing to express my regrets and apologies."
"That is better," said Colonel Dale heartily, and he turned to Erskine, but Erskine was crying hotly:
"Very well," sneered Grey coldly. "Perhaps we may meet when your relatives are not present to protect you."
"Uncle Harry----" Erskine implored, but Grey was turning toward his horse.
"Yes," assented Erskine helplessly, and then--"it is possible that we shall not always be on the same side."
"So I thought," returned Grey with lifted eyebrows, "when I heard what I did about you!" Both Harry and Hugh had to catch Erskine by an arm then, and they led him struggling away. Grey mounted his horse, lifted his hat, and was gone. Colonel Dale picked up the swords.
"Now," he said, "enough, of all this--let it be forgotten."
"You'll have to confess, Erskine--he has a quick tongue and you must think only of his temptation to use it."
As they rode back Colonel Dale spoke of the war. It was about to move into Virginia, he said, and when it did---- Both Harry and Hugh interrupted him with a glad shout:
Suddenly all pulled their horses in simultaneously and raised their eyes, for all heard the coming of a horse in a dead run. Around a thicketed curve of the road came Barbara, with her face white and her hair streaming behind her. She pulled her pony in but a few feet in front of them, with her burning eyes on Erskine alone.
"Have you killed him--have you killed him? If you have--" She stopped helpless, and all were so amazed that none could answer. Erskine shook his head. There was a flash of relief in the girl's white face, its recklessness gave way to sudden shame, and, without a word, she wheeled and was away again--Harry flying after her. No one spoke. Colonel Dale looked aghast and Erskine's heart again turned sick.
The sun was close to the uneven sweep of the wilderness. Through its slanting rays the river poured like a flood of gold. The negroes were on the way singing from the fields. Cries, chaffing, and the musical clanking of trace-chains came from the barnyard. Hungry cattle were lowing and full-uddered mothers were mooing answers to bawling calves. A peacock screamed from a distant tree and sailed forth, full-spread--a great gleaming winged jewel of the air. In crises the nerves tighten like violin strings, the memory-plates turn abnormally sensitive--and Erskine was not to forget that hour.