A peremptory order rose to the colonel’s lips and froze there as he caught the stranger’s eyes. Those eyes—where had he seen those eyes before? He remembered them long years ago. The soft, tear-filled eyes of a brown girl. He remembered many things, and his face grew drawn and white. Those eyes kept burning into him, even when they were turned half away toward the staircase, where the white figure of the child hovered with her nurse and waved good night. The lady sank into her chair and thought: “What will the judge’s wife say? How did the colonel come to invite this man here? How shall we be rid of him?” She looked at the colonel in reproachful consternation.
Just then the door opened and the old butler came in. He was an ancient black man, with tufted white hair, and he held before him a large, silver tray filled with a china tea service. The stranger rose slowly and stretched forth his hands as if to bless the viands. The old man paused in bewilderment, tottered, and then with sudden gladness in his eyes dropped to his knees, and the tray crashed to the floor.
“My Lord and my God!” he whispered; but the woman screamed: “Mother’s china!”
The doorbell rang.
“Heavens! here is the dinner party!” exclaimed the lady. She turned toward the door, but there in the hall, clad in her night clothes, was the little girl. She had stolen down the stairs to see the stranger again, and the nurse above was calling in vain. The woman felt hysterical and scolded at the nurse, but the stranger had stretched out his arms and with a glad cry the child nestled in them. They caught some words about the “Kingdom of Heaven” as he slowly mounted the stairs with his little, white burden.
The mother was glad of anything to get rid of the interloper, even for a moment. The bell rang again and she hastened toward the door, which the loitering black maid was just opening. She did not notice the shadow of the stranger as he came slowly down the stairs and paused by the newel post, dark and silent.
The judge’s wife came in. She was an old woman, frilled and powdered into a semblance of youth, and gorgeously gowned. She came forward, smiling with extended hands, but when she was opposite the stranger, somewhere a chill seemed to strike her and she shuddered and cried:
“What a draft!” as she drew a silken shawl about her and shook hands cordially; she forgot to ask who the stranger was. The judge strode in unseeing, thinking of a puzzling case of theft.
“Eh? What? Oh—er—yes—good evening,” he said, “good evening.” Behind them came a young woman in the glory of youth, and daintily silked, beautiful in face and form, with diamonds around her fair neck. She came in lightly, but stopped with a little gasp; then she laughed gaily and said:
“Why, I beg your pardon. Was it not curious? I thought I saw there behind your man”—she hesitated, but he must be a servant, she argued—“the shadow of great, white wings. It was but the light on the drapery. What a turn it gave me.” And she smiled again. With her came a tall, handsome, young naval officer. Hearing his lady refer to the servant, he hardly looked at him, but held his gilded cap carelessly toward him, and the stranger placed it carefully on the rack.
Last came the rector, a man of forty, and well-clothed. He started to pass the stranger, stopped, and looked at him inquiringly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I beg your pardon—I think I have met you?”
The stranger made no answer, and the hostess nervously hurried the guests on. But the rector lingered and looked perplexed.
“Surely, I know you. I have met you somewhere,” he said, putting his hand vaguely to his head. “You—you remember me, do you not?”
The stranger quietly swept his cloak aside, and to the hostess’ unspeakable relief passed out of the door.
“I never knew you,” he said in low tones as he went.
The lady murmured some vain excuse about intruders, but the rector stood with annoyance written on his face.
“I beg a thousand pardons,” he said to the hostess absently. “It is a great pleasure to be here—somehow I thought I knew that man. I am sure I knew him once.”
The stranger had passed down the steps, and as he passed, the nurse, lingering at the top of the staircase, flew down after him, caught his cloak, trembled, hesitated, and then kneeled in the dust.
He touched her lightly with his hand and said: “Go, and sin no more!”
With a glad cry the maid left the house, with its open door, and turned north, running. The stranger turned eastward into the night. As they parted a long, low howl rose tremulously and reverberated through the night. The colonel’s wife within shuddered.
“The bloodhounds!” she said.
The rector answered carelessly:
“Another one of those convicts escaped, I suppose. Really, they need severer measures.” Then he stopped. He was trying to remember that stranger’s name.
The judge’s wife looked about for the draft and arranged her shawl. The girl glanced at the white drapery in the hall, but the young officer was bending over her and the fires of life burned in her veins.
Howl after howl rose in the night, swelled, and died away. The stranger strode rapidly along the highway and out into the deep forest. There he paused and stood waiting, tall and still.
A mile up the road behind a man was running, tall and powerful and black, with crime-stained face and convicts’ stripes upon him, and shackles on his legs. He ran and jumped, in little, short steps, and his chains rang. He fell and rose again, while the howl of the hounds rang louder behind him.
Into the forest he leapt and crept and jumped
