THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ISABEL PROCTOR
 
 IN THE 
 SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 A Tale of 
 
 TIDEWATER VIRGINIA 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON HOWARD 
 
 "And should the twilight darken into night, 
 
 And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong ; 
 Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong 
 
 Which a fresh life-impulse cannot set right." 
 
 George MacDonald 
 
 NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS 
 CINCINNATI: JENNINGS & GRAHAM
 
 Copyright, 1906, by 
 EATON & MAINS.
 
 T>S 
 
 TO MY FATHER 
 
 WHOSE UNTIRING LOVE AND DEVOTION TO MY VENERATED 
 MOTHER AN INVALID FOR MANY YEARS- 
 WERE UNBOUNDED; 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 WHOSE PROLONGED SUFFERING WAS BORNE WITH CHRISTIAN 
 FORTITUDE 
 
 THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
 
 MAP OF DISMAL SWAMP REGION OF TIDEWATER VIRGINIA
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. Leaving Home i 
 
 II. The Rescue of Ezra 17 
 
 III. An Unexpected Meeting 24 
 
 IV. Gabriel Arnold's Nocturnal Visitor 31 
 
 V. Uncle Zeke Tells of the " DARK DAY " 37 
 
 VI. Zeke Makes a Discovery 47 
 
 VII. At Nine in the Morning 55 
 
 VIII. In the Pine Woods 61 
 
 IX. Concerning Jack Mobaly 71 
 
 X. Dr. Demster 80 
 
 XI. Leonidas Makes a Friend 90 
 
 XII. The Doctor's Story 98 
 
 XIII. Arnold's Case is Diagnosed 106 
 
 XIV. Count de Bussy 119 
 
 XV. Two Surprises 124 
 
 XVI. Isabel's Interest in the Count 138 
 
 XVII. The Rivals Face to Face 148 
 
 XVIII. On the Very Spot 157 
 
 XIX. Love-Making 163 
 
 XX. The Strange Woman 173 
 
 XXI. A Plot Disclosed 177 
 
 XXII. An Exciting Night 185 
 
 XXIII. Zeke's Secret Revealed 196 
 
 XXIV. Dr. Demster's Will 207 
 
 XXV. The Hollow Tree 220 
 
 XXVI. The Suicide 226 
 
 XXVII. A Change of Mind 236 
 
 EPILOGUE
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Isabel Proctor ----- Frontispiece 
 Map of Dismal Swamp Region of Tidewater Virginia 
 
 Facing Prologue 
 
 Facing 
 Page 
 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp - - - 20 
 
 Medal of Legion of Honor of the Second French Empire 66 
 
 Dr. Demster - - - - - 80 
 
 The Pine Woods at Briarcrest the Lonely Path - 130 
 
 Leonidas Darwood - - - 166 
 
 The Arnold Homestead at Briarcrest - - 226
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 TIMES and places are made conspicuous by events 
 and personalities. Dates are given significance by 
 the measure of the effect upon humanity of what 
 they represent. The village of Deep Creek would 
 not have such conspicuous mention here, were it not 
 for an event or two, and several personalities. The 
 events are not of unusual importance, nor are the 
 persons exceptionally notable, but for the purpose 
 of this work they are essential. 
 
 The characters who excite the greatest interest 
 are not residents of the little village, and Dr. Dem- 
 ster, himself, is not a native. The old physician had 
 a more profound reason than the practice of his pro 
 fession, or his business interests, for spending his 
 time in this small place. But few ever knew his mo 
 tive. 
 
 The location of Deep Creek lends much interest 
 to the place. It is crowded up against the Great Dis 
 mal Swamp, and this forbids the hope by even the 
 most sanguine that the village will ever become a 
 town. If they forgot themselves and indulged a 
 hope, it was dispelled by a sight of the great swamp 
 which shuts the place in on three sides.
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Dismal Swamp has created an interest for Deep 
 Creek which it otherwise would never have had. 
 This region covers a part of six counties of Virginia 
 and North Carolina, and is unlike any other region 
 of similar size on the American continent. So great 
 is its extent, and so impenetrable is this vast jungle, 
 that it has never been explored. There is a canal, 
 which bears its name, extending through the swamp, 
 equidistant from its eastern and western borders, 
 with a feeder connecting it with Lake Drummond, 
 but from the depths of Dismal Swamp no one has 
 ever returned. 
 
 There are well-authenticated accounts of travelers 
 and hunters who have entered there for exploration 
 and sport, but none returned to tell of his adven 
 ture. Many of them, misguided by the deceptive 
 Jack-o'-lantern, have lost their way and wandered 
 into the depths of the swamp, believing it to be 
 a light from the window of some swamp-settler's 
 cabin. From time immemorial the place has been 
 infested with all kinds of wild animals common to 
 this latitude of North America. The bear, deer, 
 fox, panther, catamount, wild cattle, wild dog, many 
 varieties of smaller animals and all kinds of native 
 snakes and reptiles flourish within its murky bor 
 ders. 
 
 Here and there, too, were the cabins of the ab 
 sconding slaves. Thousands of negroes, in order to 
 escape the lash of brutal masters, found their refuge 
 in this vast jungle, and reared their families in the 
 freedom of swamp life. When a negro disappeared, 
 and it was known he had penetrated into the
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 swamp, hope of his capture was abandoned. He 
 was beyond the reach of the "Fugitive Slave Law," 
 and the hounds which had been unleashed to run 
 him down were recalled. 
 
 In connection with the absconding slave, two an 
 tagonistic interests conflicted. One was in the 
 person and position of the patrol ; the other was em 
 bodied in the shingle-getters. The patrol, or "pat- 
 terole," as he was commonly called in the South, 
 was an officer of the law, whose duty it was to pur 
 sue and apprehend the "runaway," and deliver him 
 to his master, dead or alive. The contracting shin 
 gle-getters encouraged the "runaways," and under 
 went great risk in protecting them. 
 
 Culpepper Island, a high tract of three hundred 
 acres, difficult of access, under the management of 
 one Stephen Crane, was a favorite rendezvous for 
 deserting slaves and white criminals. This refuge 
 was maintained for many years, and was a prosper 
 ous place of its kind, until a posse of slaveholders 
 made their way into the swamp, and routed the pro 
 prietor and destroyed his profitable business. Since 
 the raid, Culpepper Island has been deserted as a 
 residence, though the dwellers in the swamp make 
 their way to it in search of game. 
 
 Deep Creek is on the line of travel from the east 
 ern counties of North Carolina to the market places 
 of Norfolk and Portsmouth in Virginia. The ar 
 rival of the Carolinians on their way to the markets 
 was an event for this village, as it became not only 
 a place of recuperation for the horses, but it was 
 converted into a place of entertainment and ca-
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 rousal. It not infrequently happened xfiat a typical 
 North Carolina caravan halted here on its way to 
 market loaded with scuppernongs, chickens, ducks, 
 eggs, et cetera. With the caravan were men in fus 
 tian and women in homespun, who stopped for a 
 good time before attending market next day. Upon 
 any of these occasions the village was lively late 
 into the night, and frequently the carousal lasted 
 until morning. 
 
 Three doors from the Dismal Swamp canal, near 
 the point where the Deep Creek road breaks abrupt 
 ly into the village, stands Audierne Tavern. Audi- 
 erne was for many years a place of stirring interest. 
 Stories are told of tragic events that occurred be 
 hind its closed doors. The elders of the village en 
 tertained their guests by relating the queer and 
 wicked things that had happened in the old tavern, 
 and believed the place was haunted by the ghosts of 
 men and women murdered there in the days long 
 gone by. At all events, it was a fact that blood 
 stains were upon the floor for many long years.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 LEAVING HOME 
 
 THE DARWOODS were an old Virginia family. 
 They not only traced their lineage back to the early 
 days of the colony, but also claimed that a distin 
 guished representative of their name and blood was 
 among the first settlers at Jamestown, and had per 
 formed conspicuous service in the formation of the 
 colonial government. Members of the family had 
 always been familiarly associated with noted Vir 
 ginians, and closely identified with the fortunes of 
 the Old Dominion from the remotest period to the 
 eventful days which began at Fort Sumter. Few of 
 them had ever gone from the state. They were clan 
 nish, and believed that there were no people so 
 suited to their taste as those with whom they had 
 been intimately connected the Virginians. 
 
 Richard, the grandfather of Thomas Darwood, 
 who was now the head of the family, had found his 
 way down the James River to Tidewater, and had 
 made his home in Portsmouth, on the Elizabeth 
 River. It was in the days of the colony that Rich 
 ard went to Portsmouth, and there for three gener 
 ations this branch of the family had lived and pros 
 pered. 
 
 Thomas Darwood's property, entailed from his 
 
 father, Samuel, was situated in the extreme north 
 
 i
 
 2 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 end of the town, not far from where the Elizabeth 
 makes a sweeping bend into the land, and forms 
 what for a century had been known as Magothy 
 Bay. On the maps of this section of Tidewater, as 
 made from the old surveys, the bay reminds one of 
 the hump of a great dromedary. The house stood 
 in the center of a lot of more than ordinary size. It 
 was of the Dutch style of architecture, rather low, 
 and spread out over a large area of ground, with 
 an old-fashioned chimney at each end, built against 
 the outside of the house. 
 
 Many items of interest were told of the mansion 
 (as it was called in other days) among which was 
 the fact that all the material used in its construc 
 tion, as well as the inside furnishing, was brought 
 from across the sea; and that in the spacious par 
 lor Washington and LaFayette had held many of 
 their conferences, out of which plans developed the 
 overthrow of British power in America. 
 
 Now, in the very room where the General and the 
 Marquis had discussed and planned for independ 
 ence, Thomas Darwood and his son Leonidas de 
 bated the selfsame subject, but with a different ap 
 plication. In the one case a nation was involved, in 
 the other the individual only. Thomas Darwood 
 was not willing that Leonidas should exercise inde 
 pendence of thought and action even when such 
 freedom in no sense interfered with the privilege 
 and comfort of any one else. 
 
 "Will you be gone from this house? And the 
 sooner you go the better I shall like it," said Thomas 
 Darwood in an angry tone.
 
 LEAVING HOME 3 
 
 "Yes; let me get what I claim as mine and I will 
 get out of your way." 
 
 "The sooner it is gotten together, and you are 
 from under this roof, the more contented I shall 
 be." 
 
 "Don't worry longer, father. I'll soon be gone. 
 The sun will set shortly, and I must find shelter to 
 night, but where, I do not know. I trust you will 
 not be unhappy when I am gone." 
 
 "You have been disobeying my orders, and no 
 one may remain in this house, and disregard what I 
 command. If you persist in your foolish fanaticism, 
 and continue to embarrass me and all the family, 
 remember you are not to darken that door again 
 until you obey me. And do not forget that when 
 my will is written your name shall be left out. 
 Hitherto you have been obedient and respectful, 
 and your liberty in this house has been unques 
 tioned, but now you seem bent on this course which 
 I positively forbid. Do you promise that my wishes 
 shall be respected? Think well before you speak, 
 as much depends upon your decision. Do you prom 
 ise, Leonidas ?" 
 
 "It is true that much depends upon it indeed, I 
 think everything depends upon what I now do. This 
 is surely a crisis in my life." 
 
 "Then do you here and now promise to respect 
 my wishes?" 
 
 "I do not, and what is more, I cannot," answered 
 the son. 
 
 The father was excited and bitter. The son was 
 deliberate, calm and loving; and though he was
 
 4 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 precise and determined in every word, there was 
 the kindest consideration for his father. There are 
 times in life when it is necessary to do contrary to 
 the will of those whom we hold most dear. Such a 
 time had come in the life of Leonidas Darwood. He 
 was about to leave home, and the patriarch of old 
 who heard the summons of God, the obedience of 
 which involved the apparent sacrifice of the Son of 
 Promise, did not hear the Divine command more 
 distinctly than did Leonidas Darwood. When he 
 heard it, he was ready to obey to go out not know 
 ing whither he was to go. And though he went 
 with a sad heart, he was brave and confident in the 
 possession of an enlightened and controlling con 
 science. He knew he had done no wrong, and when 
 he had refused his father's request, he felt there was 
 nothing to condemn him, and everything to ap 
 prove. 
 
 To Leonidas Darwood his conscience was not a 
 convenient thing to be used in the changing events 
 of life, but a real, uncompromising governor, which 
 often forced him into the acceptance of unpleasant 
 conditions, as well as the refusal of conditions that 
 would bring aggrandizement and ease. He was 
 now ready to render obedience to this force, and 
 to face the issues of life as they came. He realized 
 that he might not find in his wanderings a place 
 so comfortable as his home had been, that the way 
 of life might be rough, and that he might be called 
 to endure privation and suffering to the last de 
 gree; but his decision was unconditional. 
 
 "Did I understand you, Leonidas, or am I being
 
 LEAVING HOME 5 
 
 deceived by my own ears?" asked the father, look 
 ing at his son in great surprise, while his face red 
 dened with anger. "Tell me: am I mistaken? Do 
 you really intend to leave home rather than obey my 
 commands ?" 
 
 "Father, I am sure you understand me," an 
 swered the young man. "I mean just what I have 
 said, and my purpose is fixed. I shall leave home 
 and never enter it again except upon your invita 
 tion. From this day and hour I shall not consider 
 it my home, since I cannot enjoy freedom of opin 
 ion and freedom of conduct, when my opinions and 
 conduct are in harmony with the right." 
 
 "Have you thought carefully of the step you are 
 about to take ?" asked the father, grinding his teeth 
 tightly together. 
 
 "I have," replied Leonidas, "and my decision is 
 final unless you reconsider yours." 
 
 "That I will never do," cried Mr. Darwood, and 
 his face became scarlet. "You shall reverse your 
 opinion on this social question, and cut the acquaint 
 ance of that Proctor girl, or leave this house never 
 to return. You know it is embarrassing to me, 
 considering the social standing of the Darwoods, to 
 have you associate with a girl who is recognized as 
 a servant of such a man as old Gabriel Arnold." 
 
 Thomas Darwood paused, becoming more and 
 more enraged as he thought of Isabel Proctor as a 
 prospective daughter-in-law. Taking Leonidas by 
 the arm and striking one foot upon the floor, he 
 screamed aloud : "The Proctor girl and all the Ar 
 nold tribe must be abandoned, or you must go.
 
 6 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Which will you do?" Then grinding his teeth 
 again, and shaking his fist in his son's face, he said, 
 "Remember, sir, I mean just what I say." 
 
 "Father," replied Leonidas, kindly, "I trust I am 
 not displaying a spirit of disrespect, but my deter 
 mination is as fixed as yours. You have created 
 the conditions upon which I may remain at home. 
 They are conditions with which I cannot comply, 
 and save my self-respect." 
 
 "Self-respect!" roared the father. "You sacri 
 fice your self-respect by leaving home on account of 
 the low tribe you are bent on associating with, and 
 by entertaining such absurd opinions concerning 
 society. Do you know who this Proctor girl is, and 
 do you have any idea of the kind of man Gabriel 
 Arnold has shown himself to be?" 
 
 "I do not know Mr. Arnold very well," answered 
 Leonidas. "I have seen him a few times, and I con 
 fess that personally I am not attracted to him; but 
 so far as Miss Isabel Proctor is concerned, I have 
 never heard the first word of reproach uttered 
 against her, and I am sure her conduct has always 
 been commendable whenever it has been my pleas 
 ure to meet her." 
 
 "Don't call a servant girl's conduct 'commenda 
 ble' in my presence !" cried Thomas Darwood, with 
 the energy of a man on fire with rage. "I will not 
 suffer such indignity. I repeat it. Don't talk about 
 the 'commendable' conduct of a servant girl. Nor 
 will I permit you to say that it was a pleasure to 
 meet her." 
 
 "Discussion is useless, it seems, father," said
 
 LEAVING HOME 7 
 
 the young man, kindly. "The matter is fixed. You 
 have created the conditions. I cannot, and will not 
 comply with them. I will go, and go now, and " 
 
 "Then you are determined?" interrupted the 
 father, still hoping to convince his son. "You mean 
 to be a friend of the Proctor girl. Do you mean to 
 marry her?" 
 
 "I do not know what the future has in store for 
 either Miss Proctor or me," replied Leonidas, "but 
 if our lots are cast together, the fact that Isabel 
 Proctor is poor and dependent shall be no bar to 
 any legitimate relation that may arise between us." 
 
 "Do you mean that you would love and marry 
 such a poor thing?" insisted the father. "I ask 
 again, is this your meaning?" 
 
 "I mean that her poverty would not prevent it," 
 replied Leonidas. "When I leave home I shall be 
 as poor as she, and will be compelled to make my 
 way in the world. Father, I would rather love and 
 marry a poor girl of unquestioned character than 
 trust my fortune with the richest woman in Tide 
 water Virginia, if she were without the sterling 
 quality of virtue that goes to make a noble charac 
 ter." 
 
 "Then you mean to leave home on account of a 
 servant girl," said the father in derision. "You 
 mean to go; do you?" 
 
 "I mean to go, father," said Leonidas, "but it is 
 not on account of any woman that I have come to 
 this decision. If it were any other girl in question 
 than Miss Proctor, or any other family than Ga 
 briel Arnold's, my decision would be the same. I
 
 8 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 simply do not believe in the strictures you place 
 upon the class of people they seem to represent." 
 
 "But Gabriel Arnold is not only poor," said the 
 father. "He is a man that should be ignored. At 
 one time he possessed considerable wealth, and be 
 cause of his prodigality he has squandered his 
 means." 
 
 "What became of his wealth?" asked Leonidas. 
 
 "He has lived a very depraved life," answered 
 Mr. Darwood. "He has been a chicken-fighter and 
 a horse-racer, and has done all the mean things im 
 aginable by which he has gotten rid of his money, 
 and now he is as poor as a church mouse." 
 
 "It is too bad if Mr. Arnold has lost his fortune 
 by wicked or questionable means," said Leonidas, 
 "but if he were poor, simply, I should not think 
 the less of him on account of his poverty. It surely 
 is no disgrace to be poor, and it should be no re 
 flection on Isabel Proctor to be the niece of Mr. 
 Arnold because he has lost his money." 
 
 "But do you know there is a grave suspicion con 
 cerning him, lately?" asked the father. "Nobody 
 knows just what the trouble is, but those who have 
 been intimate at the home of Gabriel Arnold are 
 shaking their heads and talking in an undertone. 
 Of course, I do not know, nor does anyone else, but 
 I should take no chances in becoming allied to a 
 family of which this man is the head." 
 
 "Of course, father," observed Leonidas, after a 
 pause, "I do not know indeed, I have not the 
 faintest idea as to what your insinuation implies, but 
 if the extreme suspicion that rests upon Mr. Arnold
 
 LEAVING HOME 9 
 
 should be well founded I do not see how it should 
 affect his niece. Any rule of society that discounts 
 a person because of poverty, or because of undesir 
 able family, when the individual is pure in charac 
 ter and otherwise worthy, is cruel, and I shall never 
 be influenced by it." 
 
 "You, then, mean to associate with Isabel Proc 
 tor, no matter what she or her uncle proves to be?" 
 demanded Mr. Darwood, in a rage. 
 
 "I mean that I shall not be influenced by what he 
 proves to be," said Leonidas, "and if there is no 
 good reason to be found in Miss Proctor's own char 
 acter why I should shun her, I shall treat her as 
 courteously as if she were a member of the wealth 
 iest family in Tidewater." 
 
 "Then you are blindly in love with the hussy, and 
 do not care for consequences," said the father, 
 quickly. "Are you stark mad?" 
 
 "Stark mad, father? no!" exclaimed Leonidas, "I 
 
 am in my right mind, but I do not see the matter 
 
 as it presents itself to you. Never a word of love 
 
 'has passed between Miss Proctor and me. We are 
 
 friends, only." 
 
 This statement seemed to surprise the father. 
 There was a pause in the conversation, and a mani 
 festation of some embarrassment on the part of Mr. 
 Darwood. His face changed color, his elbow 
 slipped from the mantel and his arm hung limp at 
 his side. It was a moment before either spoke. 
 
 "Then, then," said the father, slowly, but with 
 determined emphasis, "why can't you promise to 
 have nothing more to do with her ?"
 
 io IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "I do not promise," said Leonidas, "because your 
 position is unjust and cruel." 
 
 "But suppose her uncle proves to be a criminal?" 
 said the father. "There are grave suspicions con 
 cerning him, as I have told you before." 
 
 "It may be," said Leonidas, "that I shall be as de 
 sirous as you are to avoid Mr. Arnold, but there 
 may not be the slightest reason why I should desire 
 to turn my back upon his niece." 
 
 It was now evident to Thomas Darwood that 
 reasons other than those already employed must 
 be advanced in order to change the young man's 
 views concerning Isabel Proctor. He believed his 
 son knew more of her than he was willing to ad 
 mit. Indeed, he thought there was an intimacy be 
 tween them that was almost certain to grow; and, 
 unless something were done to prevent it, he had 
 no doubt that Leonidas would marry the girl. This 
 intention he proposed to thwart at whatever cost. 
 
 "Leonidas, listen to me," said the father, sharply, 
 feeling that at last he had devised an argument that 
 would cause the young man to dismiss Isabel Proc 
 tor from his thought. "Do you know who this girl 
 is?" 
 
 "Yes, father," said Leonidas, "she, as you know, 
 is Mr. Arnold's niece. Her parents are dead, and 
 I know there are reasons for believing that she is 
 not treated kindly by her uncle." 
 
 "I thought you did not know the mystery con 
 nected with this girl's life," said the elder Darwood, 
 "or I am sure you would not become intimate with 
 her, and when you know it, I shall be surprised if
 
 LEAVING HOME n 
 
 you do not discard her at once, and despise her 
 name." 
 
 "What is the mystery?" asked Leonidas, not a 
 little surprised. "I have not heard it. Does it 
 affect her personal character?" 
 
 "I am not sure that it does affect her personal 
 character," admitted the father, reluctantly, "but it 
 makes her unfit for the association of any one bear 
 ing the Darwood name." 
 
 "I will hear it, father. What is it?" asked Le 
 onidas, showing signs of anxiety. "Does it affect 
 her good name?" 
 
 "It is not certain that the Proctor girl is the niece 
 of Gabriel Arnold, as she is believed to be," said Mr. 
 Darwood, contemptuously. "She is regarded as his 
 niece, and I have referred to her as such, but at the 
 same time, I knew of the doubt. Her parentage is in 
 question, and no one knows certainly who she is. 
 Of course, she lived with the Proctor people, but 
 they were as much in doubt as to her identity as 
 anyone else. There has been a great deal of specu 
 lation about the girl's antecedents. You know if 
 there were not something to conceal, more would 
 be known about her. The question about her birth 
 and parentage constantly arising, places a stigma 
 upon her name, and because of this, she can never 
 be admitted to respectable society. Then, besides, 
 well, well" 
 
 There was a break in the relation of the story, 
 and the father paused to observe the impression 
 made on Leonidas's mind. The young man was 
 deeply affected, but his purpose was in no sense
 
 12 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 changed by the implied mystery, although he felt 
 anxious to know more of Isabel's history. He won 
 dered if there were a chapter in her life that was 
 dark enough to make it necessary to conceal it from 
 the public, and he tried to push the inquiry further. 
 
 "Father, do you mean that Isabel Proctor is 
 not pure? Has she ever done anything that any 
 woman of the best Virginia family might not do? 
 This is what concerns me. I am not so anxious to 
 inquire into the parentage or birth of people, as I 
 am to know what they are in themselves. Tell me, 
 is Isabel Proctor of questionable character? Is she 
 disgraced by anything for which she is responsible?" 
 
 "No, but the mystery, the mystery of her her 
 birth and parents!" stammered the father. "The 
 Proctors themselves could not explain the mystery 
 about her." 
 
 "How did the Proctor people come by her?" 
 asked Leonidas, with a tone of sadness in his voice. 
 
 "Well," replied Mr. Darwood, impulsively, shak 
 ing his head, "as in many another case. The fam 
 ily into which the brat was born paid some old hag 
 to dispose of her, and she was left at the door of 
 the Proctor people with the hope that they would 
 take care of her. They took the child in and did 
 their best for her as long as they lived. Since their 
 death she has made her home with Gabriel Arnold, 
 and believes him to be her uncle, for she never 
 knew any other parents but the Proctors." 
 
 "Strange, strange," said Leonidas, in an under 
 tone. 
 
 "Strange enough," returned the father, sharply.
 
 LEAVING HOME 13 
 
 "What about the girl? What do you propose to 
 do?" 
 
 "Is it not more important to know what people 
 are than to know who they are?" asked Leonidas. 
 "I would rather know that Miss Proctor is a young 
 woman of strong, pure character, than to be told 
 that she is of royal parentage." 
 
 "I will hear no more of this nonsense," said Mr. 
 Darwood, greatly indignant. "Say nothing to me 
 about sympathizing with people of questionable 
 origin." 
 
 For the first time Leonidas lost his composure, 
 and his excitement was manifest in his reply. 
 
 "If this story be true, Miss Proctor deserves our 
 sympathy and not our censure. I cannot see that 
 anything you have said should affect her in the 
 least. She is poor, and the circumstances of her 
 birth may be peculiar, but since she is a girl of pure 
 character and has always borne a good reputation 
 there is no reason in anything you have said for dis 
 honoring her. I certainly shall not do it." 
 
 Mr. Darwood stood motionless for a moment 
 meditating upon what Leonidas had said. He 
 thought he grasped his son's meaning. Moving 
 quickly to where the young man stood he placed 
 his hand on his shoulder and demanded: 
 
 "Leonidas Darwood, do you mean that you would 
 marry the hussy, and bring her into the Darwood 
 family, and disgrace our name forever?" 
 
 "Father," said Leonidas with more composure, 
 "I have no thought of marriage yet, nor am I in 
 love; but there is nothing you have related about
 
 14 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Isabel Proctor that would influence my affections; 
 and when the time comes for me to marry, the fact 
 that she is poor, or that there is a mystery connected 
 with her birth, would have nothing to do with de 
 termining her fitness to become my wife. I should 
 not consider, either, the fact that I am a Darwood, 
 and that our family is of high social standing." 
 
 "Then you will have her in spite of my protest ?" 
 said the father, sharply. 
 
 "If it should turn out that I love the girl, yes, 
 sir," replied Leonidas, quickly; "and nothing you 
 have said against her would in the least influence 
 my mind." 
 
 "Leonidas, Leonidas," said Mr. Darwood in a 
 commanding tone of voice, "tell me why you per 
 sist in this fanaticism and disregard of social laws ? 
 Will you explain?" 
 
 Mrs. Darwood, who had been an eager listener 
 to this conversation, now entered from an adjoin 
 ing room and advanced timidly toward Leonidas. 
 He moved to meet her, but the father sternly warned 
 her to the other end of the room. 
 
 "Thomas," said she, gently. 
 
 The father turned angrily toward her, and Le 
 onidas begged her to let them settle the matter as 
 soon as possible. 
 
 "Not long since," resumed Leonidas, "I attended 
 service in a church in Dinwiddie street a church of 
 the Methodist sect. It was my privilege and great 
 pleasure to hear the Reverend Vernon Eskridge, an 
 unpretentious man, discourse on the Beatitudes. 
 While I may not be able to enter into the details of
 
 LEAVING HOME 15 
 
 the sermon, I have a vivid recollection of the man 
 and the spirit he manifested, and much of what he 
 said. Somehow, I could not then, and cannot now, 
 escape the conviction that what he said was true. 
 From the moment the preacher began his sermon 
 his countenance was full of light, as if he believed 
 with all his heart the interpretation he had placed 
 upon the Beatitudes. I then and there determined, 
 come what might, to accept that teaching and con 
 form my life to it." 
 
 "What did the preacher say was the meaning of 
 the Beatitudes?" asked Mr. Darwood, showing some 
 interest in what his son had said. 
 
 "Well," said Leonidas, "he declared that Jesus, 
 the Great Teacher, took a view of life different from 
 that accepted by people generally. In the world the 
 preferred classes are the rich and those who have 
 had an easy time in life, and those who stand well 
 in society; while in the Beatitudes, the preacher 
 said, it was clear that Christ pronounced blessings 
 on the very opposite of these. It was the poor in 
 spirit, the mourners and the persecuted who excited 
 the Great Teacher's sympathy, and upon whom he 
 dispensed his favors. Father, this is a new idea in 
 society, and it is revolutionary, but it impresses me 
 as being the great need of the world, and I have 
 determined to be a humble disciple of him whose 
 purpose it was to give the oppressed a helping 
 hand." 
 
 "Then it becomes a matter of religion," said Mr. 
 Darwood, excitedly. "Of religion! You get it 
 from the Bible, do you?"
 
 16 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 His upper lip curled and his nostrils became dis 
 tended. 
 
 "Yes," said Leonidas, kindly, "it is certainly the 
 teaching of the Bible, and was exemplified in the 
 life of Christ." 
 
 Thomas Darwood was nonplussed by the state 
 ment Leonidas had just made and the spirit he 
 showed. He saw his son as he had never seen him 
 before. In his heart he felt the young man to be 
 sincere, but he was proud and stubborn and would 
 not retract. 
 
 "Leonidas, my decision is final," said the father, 
 resuming the spirit he had shown earlier. "You 
 shall decide the matter now, once for all. This is 
 your only opportunity. Stay without your religion 
 and the servant girl or go with them." 
 
 "I will go," was the son's quiet response. 
 
 "Then go you must, and go at once," roared the 
 father, striking his foot upon the floor. 
 
 Leonidas stepped to his mother. She was weep 
 ing. Putting his arms about her neck he kissed 
 her upon one cheek, then upon the other, repeating 
 the caresses again and again. He had voice to say, 
 "Good-bye, mother. God bless you." Then turn 
 ing to his father, he simply said, "I hope you will 
 see it as I do some day." 
 
 "O, Thomas, what have you done?" sobbed Mrs. 
 Darwood. 
 
 Leonidas was gone.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE RESCUE OF EZRA 
 
 TOWARD evening, October 16, 1861, a company 
 of traders from Carolina had gathered at Deep 
 Creek. The villagers were all interest and excite 
 ment, for these occasional visitations meant noise 
 for the entire night, and sometimes were fraught 
 with more tangible consequences, as a broken limb, 
 a bruised head, or a stab in the back was not un 
 common. With a liberal supply of Dismal Swamp 
 whiskey, the product of moonshiners, furnished 
 at Audierne Tavern, no one was sagacious enough 
 to guess all that might transpire. 
 
 Just after the market folk had crowded into the 
 village, and before early candlelight, an itinerant 
 bear trainer appeared. His bear was muzzled and 
 a chain was attached to a strong strap about his 
 neck. The trainer seemed to have absolute control 
 of the animal, for commands were obeyed as read 
 ily as they were given. The bear stood upon his 
 head against the tavern, waltzed to the music of a 
 jew's-harp, and performed many other antics, which 
 furnished entertainment for the Carolinians as well 
 as the native denizens who had appeared at the ad 
 vent of the trainer. There was nothing unusual in 
 the appearance of the bear to interest the crowd now 
 filling the streets, except that he was not of a species
 
 i8 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 common to Dismal Swamp. His color was not that 
 of the ordinary black bear found in this vicinity; 
 he was much larger in size, and displayed greater 
 intelligence than his brothers of the swamp. 
 
 Against one of the posts which supported the di 
 lapidated old shed in front of Audierne, holding the 
 chain in one hand, and a long hickory staff in the 
 other, stood the bear trainer. The performance had 
 ended, and the bear was lying quietly upon the 
 ground, with his head resting upon the right foot 
 of his master. The crowd had dispersed, leaving 
 only a few of the market folk lingering near the 
 trainer and his animal. Among those still loitering 
 about was the most ill-favored of the entire com 
 pany, and it was easily perceived that he did not 
 belong to the Carolinians. He did not wear the 
 customary fustian, but was attired in a soiled red 
 shirt, with the sleeves rolled up within an inch or 
 two of his shoulders. The torn collar-band stand 
 ing open exposed his breast halfway to the waist. 
 His slouch hat had a broad brim, and the crown was 
 battered in from the side. On his feet were unusu 
 ally large rawhide boots, into which his coarse 
 trousers were thrust. He held in his hand a leather 
 whip. 
 
 Near him stood a well-dressed woman, looking 
 around as if in search of some one. She had been 
 present at the beginning of the performance, and 
 had scanned, with a wild and anxious expression 
 in her eyes, the men as they moved about. She ex 
 cited some curiosity, but no one knew who she was. 
 It was clear, too, that she was not one of the market
 
 THE RESCUE OF EZRA 19 
 
 women. The rough man put his hand upon the wo 
 man's shoulder and pushed her aside as he took 
 his position nearer the bear trainer. 
 
 Silently Jack Mobaly (for this was the man's 
 name) stood erect for a moment, placed one foot 
 before the other, drew his body back, and with a 
 terrific lunge forward, cracked his great whip in 
 the direction of the sleeping bear. His aim was ac 
 curate. The lash struck the bear in the eye. The 
 animal immediately rolled over, tossed as if in great 
 distress, then, springing to his feet, threw himself 
 upon the trainer and instantly forced him to the 
 ground. He stood with one paw upon the man's 
 breast and with the other he scratched the earth, 
 throwing the dirt upon the men standing near. He 
 ran from his victim, but soon returned, swinging in 
 a curious manner, and rolling his great head from 
 side to side, apparently to keep time with the awk 
 ward movement of his body. He was thoroughly 
 aroused, and seemed determined to tear his vic 
 tim to pieces. With his paw again upon the man's 
 body he tore his long garment into rags. The bear 
 inflicted several wounds, one of which was over 
 the left eye, running across the temple well into the 
 hair, making a conspicuous gash. The blood flowed 
 until it stood in a pool under the man's shoulders. 
 Then, with one mighty stroke of his fore feet, the 
 bear tore away the muzzle that had confined his 
 mouth, and flung it, with the chain rattling, into the 
 midst of the frightened men, who broke away from 
 the scene. His mouth being released the bear 
 planted his teeth in the fleshy part of the man's
 
 2O IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 body and, tasting blood, grew more infuriated. 
 The victim, in his native "Yiddish," cried aloud : 
 
 "Gewald! Gewald! In Gots numen rahtivit 
 mich." 
 
 Then the poor man said in a plaintive tone: 
 "Schema Isroel! Adonai Elehenu! Adonai Echod!" 
 
 A young man carrying a satchel entered the vil 
 lage, as this cry fell upon the air, and hastened to 
 ward the commotion. As he quickened his pace, 
 he heard more distinctly than before, though the 
 voice was weaker, "Schema Isroel! Adonai 
 Elehenu ! Adonai Echod !" 
 
 He could not completely interpret the language of 
 the sufferer, but it flashed upon him that "Schema 
 Isroel" was the plaintive appeal of every Jew in sore 
 distress. He had learned by his association with 
 Jewish friends that these were the first words of 
 the familiar sentence, "Hear, O Israel, the Lord is 
 our God. The Lord is one." Which signified mo 
 ments of extraordinary suffering and danger. 
 
 He reached the point where the only two streets 
 of the village intersect. Turning the corner, he saw 
 the crowd and pushed forward. The sight of a 
 man flat on his back, with the teeth of a grizzly bear 
 at his throat and blood upon the ground in every 
 direction, confronted him. 
 
 "Gewald! Gewald! In Gots numen rahtivit 
 mich," the man gasped, feebly. 
 
 The young man determined what should be done, 
 and that it must be done quickly, if the Jew was to 
 be saved from the mad animal. On the ground 
 under the shed in front of the tavern, and not far
 
 THE RESCUE OF EZRA 21 
 
 from where the man and the bear were struggling, 
 lay a cedar post. It was about six inches in diameter 
 at one end, and tapered to a point at the other, with 
 here and there upon it stumps of smaller limbs. 
 This the young man perceived to be the best weapon 
 available with which to attack the bear. He took 
 the post and leaped forward, striking the animal 
 with the sharp end. 
 
 His purpose was accomplished, for the bear be 
 came more furious and turned upon his assailant, 
 running toward him with his mouth open dripping 
 with the blood of the Jew. When the animal came 
 with long strides, and with the characteristic move 
 ment of the body and head, the young man leveled 
 the post and with all his strength launched it for 
 ward, striking the bear just over the eye that had 
 been wounded by the whip. The animal staggered, 
 but soon recovered and made another attempt to 
 reach his assailant. The young man was ready for 
 the next attack, and with gigantic strength struck 
 the bear. This time the end of the post entered the 
 animal's mouth, and ran several inches into its 
 throat. Finally the bear was crowded into a corner 
 at the end of the tavern steps, the young man forc 
 ing the post still farther into its throat. 
 
 "Take the man up. Take him up. I'll attend to 
 the bear," shouted the young man, who, with the 
 aid of one of the company, soon ended the life of 
 the infuriated beast. 
 
 The bear trainer was borne away to a cot in the 
 tavern, and when the door closed behind him a vil 
 lager leaped upon a cart and shouted at the top of
 
 22 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 his voice: "Fellows, this chap has done what we 
 were afraid to try. Here go three cheers for Le- 
 onidas Darwood!" 
 
 The words were followed by hearty cheers from 
 the few men who had remained to witness the finish 
 of the fight. 
 
 In the meantime, Jack Mobaly, who caused all the 
 trouble, slipped away unobserved, except by one or 
 two, and made his way to an old grist mill. 
 
 When the animal lay dead Leonidas took his 
 satchel and went into the tavern to make inquiry as 
 to the condition of the injured man, who lay upon a 
 rough cot in one corner of the room with his 
 wounds still bleeding freely. His rescuer stepped 
 lightly to his side and lifted his hand to feel the 
 strength of his pulse. Before the young man had 
 spoken a word the suffering Jew raised himself upon 
 one elbow, and with the other hand supported him 
 self in a half upright position, saying haltingly : 
 
 "Ich wil schtarben fiir dir. Die hust gerahtinvit 
 mein laben. Ich wil gehen fiir deer in feier und in 
 waser." 
 
 The Yiddish was unintelligible to Leonidas, but 
 by repeated efforts at imperfect English the Jew 
 made him understand that he would go through fire 
 and water for him,, or that he would die to prove 
 his gratitude for his rescue from the teeth of the 
 bear. 
 
 Ezra was a native of Poland, and had been in 
 America less than a year, traveling with his bear 
 ever since he came. He loved Poland devotedly, 
 and never would have forsaken the "Fatherland"
 
 THE RESCUE OF EZRA 23 
 
 but for the trying conditions which obtained there. 
 He had not done so until the last hope of Poland's 
 independence had vanished. He had been conspic 
 uously identified with Polish politics, had been ex 
 iled to Siberia, escaped, and came to America. 
 
 Ezra was a patriot, and the cause of his patriot 
 ism was to be found in the tradition of his family, 
 as he believed it, and often related it. Early in the 
 fourteenth century Casimir the Great occupied the 
 throne of Poland. He had taken to himself a beau 
 tiful Jewish mistress, Esther by name, who bore 
 him two sons and two daughters. The names of 
 the sons were Niemertz and Pelka. Ezra claimed to 
 trace his lineage back to Casimir through the house 
 of Pelka, and had always seemed proud of his claim. 
 Though he was assured by tradition that his pro 
 genitor, Pelka, was the son of illicit love, still he 
 felt, in a sense, that he was a child of royalty. This 
 conviction strengthened his love for Poland, and for 
 Poland he would have died if that would have 
 freed her.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 
 
 "MR. DARWOOD! Mr. Darwood, is that you?" 
 came a sweet voice, apparently through the under 
 growth, as Leonidas was making his way toward a 
 house that stood in the center of Briarcrest, the es 
 tate of Gabriel Arnold. Leonidas was surprised, 
 and paused for a moment to listen for a repetition 
 of his name. He stood motionless for a time, look 
 ing about him and listening for any sound that 
 might fall on the still night air. He was not mis 
 taken, for he heard again, in a distinct voice, which 
 this time could be recognized, "Mr. Darwood, is 
 that you?" 
 
 "Yes," responded Leonidas, as Isabel Proctor 
 wended her way down a footpath through the myr 
 tle thicket to where he was standing, still looking 
 about him to discover whence came the voice. 
 
 "What brings you here, Mr. Darwood, at this 
 late hour of the night? Is it not unusual, particu 
 larly on such a night as this promises to be ?" asked 
 Isabel, as she stood trying to read his face through 
 the darkness. 
 
 "It is a long story," said Leonidas, "and I cannot 
 tell you now. But may I not ask why you are here? 
 It is quite late, and a storm is approaching. It seems 
 strange to meet you in this lonely place at night, and
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 25 
 
 especially this kind of a night. Why are you here? 
 Are you out on some important errand?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Isabel, "I have been in search of 
 a doctor. I was detained on the way home. I was 
 just coming 1 back by a nearer route through the 
 myrtle thicket when I heard footsteps, and stopped 
 to discover whose they might be." 
 
 "Who is ill?" asked Leonidas, fearing that sick 
 ness in Gabriel Arnold's home would make his en 
 tertainment for the night impossible. 
 
 "Uncle Gabriel is not well, and I am greatly con 
 cerned for him," responded Isabel. "Indeed I am 
 alarmed at times. For some time past he has acted 
 as if he might lose his mind. He has walked the 
 floor, and has not wanted anybody near him. He 
 has also talked to himself in an undertone, although 
 I could never learn what he said. Now he has col 
 lapsed utterly. When I left, uncle was raving mad. 
 I trust the doctor is with him and has pacified him 
 by this time. I met Dr. Demster, the Deep Creek 
 physician, and he consented to come. The doctor 
 is a very, queer old man himself, but I was glad 
 to get anyone in the emergency. This is my expla 
 nation. But Will you not tell me why you are 
 here?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you all now, Miss Proctor," replied 
 Leonidas, as he took Isabel by the hands, and drew 
 her nearer to where he stood looking into her eyes 
 as the lightning played across the clouds in the 
 west. "I cannot tell you now, Miss Proctor, but I 
 am homeless and looking for a shelter to-night, 
 and "
 
 26 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Homeless, Mr. Darwood! What do you mean?" 
 cried Isabel in great surprise, before Leonidas could 
 finish his statement. "Not homeless?" 
 
 "Yes, homeless," replied Leonidas. "My father 
 has turned me out. I thought I might find shelter 
 at your uncle's, but I suppose as he is in such a con 
 dition as you describe, this will be impossible. I 
 was just making my way over there when I heard 
 your voice, and stopped to be sure that it was you. 
 I am glad I met you. Do you think it worth while 
 for me to go farther?" 
 
 "I fear Uncle Gabriel will not receive you kind 
 ly," said Isabel, "but Uncle Zeke will, I am sure, 
 and you must hurry there before the storm breaks. 
 Zeke's cabin is not very inviting, but it will be a 
 shelter from the storm; and, besides, you will be 
 welcome. Tell him I sent you." 
 
 "Thank you for the suggestion," said Leonidas, 
 "and when you are safe at home I shall find Uncle 
 Zeke." 
 
 The two started through the myrtle toward Ga 
 briel Arnold's house, Leonidas still holding Isabel's 
 hand. The night was perfectly still, and not a 
 sound could be heard save the occasional rumbling 
 of distant thunder. 
 
 Breaking the silence, Isabel said: 
 
 "Mr. Darwood, you have not told me why you 
 were ordered to leave home. Will you tell me now? 
 I am sure you have done right, but I am very de 
 sirous to hear your story. I am sure you will tell 
 me." 
 
 "In time you shall know all, and might know
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 27 
 
 now but for the lateness of the hour and the ap 
 proaching storm," said Leonidas. "Wait until a 
 more favorable opportunity, which I trust shall be 
 soon." 
 
 They now emerged from the myrtle thicket into 
 the main path that led to the house from the north 
 side of the farm, and walked all the distance with 
 out speaking a word, both lost in thought, until 
 they reached the veranda. Here they paused and 
 Isabel asked again: 
 
 "Will you not tell me in a few words why you left 
 home? Tell me this and I promise to be content 
 until you have time to tell me all about it. Do tell 
 me." 
 
 "On account of my religious convictions," said 
 Leonidas, "and and " 
 
 " And what else?" asked Isabel, insistently. 
 "Do you fear to trust me?" 
 
 "And and you, Miss Proctor and and 
 you," said Leonidas, with emotion, as he grasped 
 her hand more tightly and drew her closer to his 
 side. "Miss Proctor, my father is not pleased with 
 you." 
 
 "How have I offended him ?" asked the perplexed 
 Isabel. "I have never seen your father, and how 
 could I displease him ? But I promised to be satis 
 fied, and I shall say no more about it until we have 
 a more favorable opportunity to talk." 
 
 The storm threatened every moment to break 
 upon them. The leaves of the sycamores which 
 stood about the house had been perfectly still dur 
 ing the evening, but now began to rustle as a pre-
 
 28 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 monition of the coming gale. The lightning played 
 in irregular, zigzag streaks across the clouds, now 
 flashing so vividly near them as to dazzle their vis 
 ion; and the thunder, that hitherto had rumbled in 
 the distance, pealed forth like crashing artillery. 
 Already the large drops of rain spattered in their 
 faces, warning them that the storm was upon them. 
 
 "May I not see you in the morning, when all can 
 be explained?" asked Leonidas. 
 
 "I shall meet you, Mr. Darwood," said Isabel, 
 "but where?" 
 
 "In Uncle Zeke's cabin," responded Leonidas, as 
 suming that the old slave would be at home and bid 
 him welcome. 
 
 "You may expect me at nine," said Isabel, as she 
 turned away to enter the house. 
 
 The storm broke with terrific fury, and Leonidas 
 faced a blinding blast of wind and rain on his way 
 to Uncle Zeke's cabin. 
 
 The clock, which for almost a century had stood 
 in the hallway of the Arnold homestead, struck 
 eleven as Isabel closed the door behind her. The 
 old house reeled upon its foundation, and the win 
 dows rattled as if they would fly from their cas 
 ings. Never before had Isabel known a storm like 
 this. Never had she known the house to even 
 tremble in the wind as it did now. As the gale in 
 creased in fury Isabel thought of Leonidas and 
 wondered if by this time he had found Uncle Zeke, 
 and if he were protected from the storm. 
 
 "If Uncle Zeke is not at home, what will Mr. 
 Darwood do? I will be certain about it," said Isa-
 
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 29 
 
 bel, in a low tone of voice. Wrapping her uncle's 
 coat about her shoulders, she plunged out into the 
 storm, and was soon in the path Leonidas had 
 taken. 
 
 Isabel made her way, through the darkness, to a 
 place where the line of trees in front of the house 
 terminated abruptly. An occasional flash of light 
 ning enabled her to see where she was. Turning 
 to the right, and walking a hundred yards or more, 
 she saw distinctly the light shining through the 
 boards that formed the shutters of the only window 
 in Uncle Zeke's cabin. So delighted was she that 
 she forgot the storm and forged her way ahead 
 until she listened at the old slave's door and was 
 satisfied that Leonidas was within. She turned to 
 retrace her steps and in a few moments more came 
 again to the great tree the last of the row that 
 formed a line in front of Gabriel Arnold's house. 
 Just then, by the aid of a vivid flash of lightning, 
 she saw to her surprise and alarm what appeared 
 to be a man standing behind the tree, as if to hide 
 and also to protect himself from the driving rain. 
 Who it was she did not know. Her first thought 
 was of Leonidas, and she wondered if, after all, 
 it were he. But the next flash of lightning revealed 
 clearly a man considerably larger than Leonidas, 
 with long hair and whiskers and wearing a rough 
 broad-brim hat. 
 
 Isabel had several times before seen a strange 
 man at Briarcrest in close conversation with her 
 Uncle Gabriel. He always came and went at night, 
 in a way to excite her curiosity, but she had never
 
 30 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 dared to make inquiry concerning him. He was 
 rough in appearance, with shaggy beard and hair, 
 and generally wore a soiled red shirt, with a leather 
 belt from which hung a brace of pistols on each 
 side. His trousers were crowded into heavy raw 
 hide boots, and he invariably carried a large whip 
 such as is used in driving oxen in and about Dis 
 mal Swamp. 
 
 The man behind the tree in every particular re 
 sembled her Uncle Gabriel's stealthy visitor. He 
 said nothing, but seemed to wish to conceal his 
 presence. Isabel hastened homeward, looking be 
 hind her at every step. She reached the veranda 
 and quickly entered the house, locking and bolting 
 the door. 
 
 Throwing aside the storm coat, and satisfying 
 herself that all was quiet in the house, Isabel crept 
 lightly to her room. She retired, but did not sleep. 
 The events of the night had been so unusual and 
 exciting, and one experience had crowded so closely 
 upon another, that she was wide awake. The storm 
 was now at its height, but when she became some 
 what accustomed to the rattling and banging caused 
 by the wind, when the thunder had ceased, and it 
 was possible to sleep, the vision of the man behind 
 the tree came persistently before her with a re 
 ality that alarmed her. Then came the thought of 
 Leonidas, too, and she wondered what he could 
 have meant when he hesitated, and his voice trem 
 bled as he said: "On account of my religious con 
 victions, and and you, Miss Proctor, and and 
 you."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 GABRIEL ARNOLD'S NOCTURNAL VISITOR 
 
 AFTER midnight, upon hearing various noises, 
 some of which could not have been caused by the 
 storm, Isabel yielded to the impulse to move quietly 
 about the house and ascertain their origin. She 
 paused at the hall door which opened into her 
 uncle's room, and was surprised at hearing a conver 
 sation in a low voice. It was impossible for her to 
 see within, though the door was slightly ajar. She 
 found that the rough man who had stood behind 
 the tree when she went to Uncle Zeke's cabin had 
 followed closely behind her and had entered the 
 room through the window, as the outside door was 
 locked and barred. More than ever was she con 
 vinced that he was the strange man whom she had 
 often seen in close conversation with her uncle and 
 concerning whom she dared not ask any questions. 
 
 Isabel listened, and became intensely interested, 
 for she realized that the conversation concerned 
 Leonidas and herself. She heard her uncle dis 
 tinctly ask: 
 
 "Do I understand you to say a strange man went 
 to Zeke's cabin?" 
 
 Isabel waited breathlessly for the answer, which 
 was: "Yes, Gabe, a man went to Zeke's a short 
 time before I came here. I was standing behind 
 the big sycamore down at the turn of the lane, out
 
 32 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 of the rain. When the lightning flashed I saw him 
 leave your front door, and make his way down the 
 lane by the trees, and saw him pound on old Zeke's 
 door. Soon Zeke let him in out of the storm. In 
 about ten minutes a woman came the same way. 
 She went by me, and during a flash I saw her put 
 her ear against Zeke's door. She then passed me 
 again, and came back toward the house, and " 
 
 The frightened girl staggered against the door, 
 but was sufficiently composed to hear her uncle 
 ask: 
 
 "Who in the thunder could the woman be?" 
 
 To this question came the emphatic response: 
 "By my life, Gabe, I believe it was your niece, Isa 
 bel." 
 
 "And who could the man be?" asked Arnold 
 with a gasp which indicated great consternation. 
 
 "I don't know, but I fell in with Hiram Hicks 
 in the edge of the pine woods, as I was coming in, 
 and he told of a fuss at old man Darwood's. He 
 says young Darwood has become so contemptible 
 of late that his father has driven him away from 
 home. One of the reasons given was that old Dar 
 wood feared the young man was in love with that 
 niece of yours. I wouldn't be much surprised, Gabe, 
 if the fellow who went to Zeke's was young Dar 
 wood and the woman who followed was your 
 niece. Now, don't it look that way?" 
 
 "As sure as you live it does," replied Arnold, 
 with a sigh, "and Zeke and that youngster are up 
 to some devilment, I'm afraid." 
 
 Isabel became more and more agitated at this
 
 GABRIEL ARNOLD'S NOCTURNAL VISITOR 33 
 
 revelation, and her nerves were almost beyond con 
 trol. She could scarcely resist the inclination to 
 rush into her uncle's room. But her own welfare, 
 as well as that of Leonidas, was involved, so she 
 determined to be quiet in order to hear the conver 
 sation to the end. Standing in the center of the 
 hallway, with her hand behind her, and grasping 
 tightly with the other the ends of her shawl which 
 met at her waist, she listened tensely to what fol 
 lowed : 
 
 "I don't like it a bit, to have that fellow prowling 
 about. He is certainly here for no good. Besides, 
 he might have seen you, too, and will let the cat 
 out of the bag. What do you say about keeping 
 an eye on the lad?" 
 
 "It would be all up with me if the police sus 
 pected that I came to Briarcrest. They think now 
 that I went to Texas when I broke jail, and if they 
 ever get an inkling of my whereabouts they'll be 
 on the lookout for me. I'm afraid of the scamp, 
 since you come to speak of the danger. I think 
 we'd better take him in hand. But why are you 
 so much afraid of him, Gabe?" 
 
 "If he's gone to Zeke's, I'm afraid he may get 
 the negro's confidence, and in an unguarded mo 
 ment the old fool may tell some of my business 
 affairs. His going to Zeke's cabin, I fear, is a bad 
 sign for me. I wish he were a thousand miles away. 
 What can be done to silence him? For he's sure 
 to have something to tell since he has seen you and 
 has talked with Zeke. You may think me suspi 
 cious, but we had better look out for him."
 
 34 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "I don't think anyone could recognize me now, 
 especially at night, when the only light is from a 
 flash of lightning, but still I am not willing to take 
 any chances. Something will have to be done with 
 the lad. What will it be?" 
 
 "I don't know the most practical thing. What 
 do you think about it ?" 
 
 "Think about it? I'll think about it when the 
 time comes. By the way, Gabe, why do you keep 
 old Zeke about you, anyway? He is old and no 
 good. You've sold all the other blacks that have 
 not gone to the swamp. Why don't you let him go, 
 too? I don't see that you have any use for such 
 an old nuisance. I'm sure it ain't because you've 
 too much conscience to sell the old man. Your con 
 science is like mine, if you ever had one. It is 
 done up and laid away, never to worry you again; 
 ain't that so, old pard? Come, what's the matter 
 with you? I tell you, old fellow, you are getting 
 white as a ghost. What are you looking at that 
 door for? Do you hear anything? Come, now, 
 nobody is there. Tell me why you keep Zeke." 
 
 "Well, I I, well I I" 
 
 "What's the matter with you? Why should a 
 little chat about an old nigger shut off your talk 
 like this ? If he was mine, and I was in your place, 
 I'd take him into the pine woods down by the syca 
 mores, and I'd knock him in the head with that 
 hickory club there in the corner; then I'd sink his 
 old black carcass to the bottom of the branch. That 
 would be the last of old Zeke, and I'd be happy 
 over what I'd done. Or if you have too much con-
 
 GABRIEL ARNOLD'S NOCTURNAL VISITOR 35 
 i 
 
 science for that, why don't you pay somebody to 
 take him off your hands ? Then he couldn't tell any 
 of your affairs. I'd settle with him I would. I'd 
 get rid of him somehow." 
 
 "I've often wished I could but I can't now." 
 
 "Blame it, take him to the pine woods and send 
 him over." 
 
 "No, no; not in the pine woods." 
 
 "Why, that's a fine place for such a job." 
 
 "No, not in the pine woods. I can't. I've often 
 thought of it, I say, but I can't, now." 
 
 "How long since?" 
 
 "Since the day the day of the eclipse the day 
 that was so dark dark in more ways than one." 
 
 "Gabe, old fellow, there's something crooked be 
 tween you and that blame nigger. You needn't 
 tell me what it is, but I know by the way you stam 
 mer and stutter, and by your scary look, there's 
 something the matter. Don't tell me, but I know 
 that old rascal's got something to tell the young 
 man, and it scares you to think about it. Gabe, 
 quit talking about Zeke. What do you want done 
 about the young man?" 
 
 "I don't know just what, but somehow I want 
 him out of my way at 'most any cost. I confess I'm 
 afraid of him since you said he went to Zeke's 
 cabin." 
 
 "By Jove, Gabe, did you hear that? It's four 
 o'clock. I must be out of this." 
 
 Isabel heard the man leap quickly to the back 
 window of Gabriel Arnold's room and slip out, 
 into the darkness. Her Uncle Gabriel dropped
 
 36 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 upon his bed, greatly troubled with the possibilities 
 suggested by the recent disclosures. 
 
 Meanwhile, Isabel's mind was in a state of 
 strange agitation. She wondered what it all meant. 
 It appeared that Uncle Zeke exerted a mysterious 
 influence over her Uncle Gabriel, but the nature of 
 that power she did not know. It had been of short 
 duration only since the day of the eclipse. What 
 could have happened that day to change the whole 
 current of her Uncle Gabriel's life, and give this 
 slave such a hold on him? Why was he so afraid 
 of Uncle Zeke? Then, too, there was an evident 
 conspiracy between this strange man and her uncle. 
 Leonidas had suddenly crossed their path and they 
 immediately wished him evil. Was it true, as the 
 strange man had intimated, that Uncle Zeke had 
 something to tell Leonidas, which made it neces 
 sary for her Uncle Gabriel to hate him, and to wish 
 to dispose of him at " 'most any cost?" 
 
 These questions crowded upon her excited brain 
 until she became nearly frantic. She felt sure that 
 her uncle would, with this mysterious man, plot 
 against Leonidas ; and that back of it all there was 
 a motive which she must at least attempt to fathom. 
 
 As Isabel turned quickly, but silently, to go to 
 her room, she was startled to hear her uncle leap 
 from his bed and pace back and forth across the 
 floor, muttering: 
 
 "The infernal wretch ! If that young scamp gets 
 my secret from Zeke, Tidewater Virginia will not 
 hold both of us; that's sure. He'll go the way of 
 the Count."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 UNCLE ZEKE TELLS OF THE DARK DAY 
 
 "WHO'S dat knockin' at dat doe?" shouted Uncle 
 Zeke, in great surprise and alarm. "I'd lak ter 
 know who's dat cumin' ter 'sturb ol' Zeke dis time 
 o'night. I'd lak ter know who 'tis an' what da 
 wants, anyway." 
 
 "Uncle Zeke, it is Leonidas Darwood. Can't 
 you let me in to stay till morning?" asked Leonidas, 
 in a bold, distinct voice, in order to be heard above 
 the noise of the storm. 
 
 "La sakes, Mars Lonny, what yer doin' out hyar 
 dis time o'night?" asked Zeke, as he flung the door 
 wide open, even though the rain was driving to 
 ward it. 
 
 Leonidas, being now assured of the old slave's 
 hospitality, pushed in quickly from the blinding 
 tempest. Though the storm had been raging but 
 a short time, he was thoroughly wet, and even his 
 belongings in the satchel were soaked wlith thie 
 rain. 
 
 "Mars Lonny, set down dar on dat crickit, jam 
 by dat fire an' dry yersef ; an' den tell Zeke 'bout 
 why yers out dis bad night. I wants ter hyar, 
 chile, an' yer mus' tell ol' Zeke," said the negro, 
 persuasively, as he showed Leonidas a rough, im 
 provised seat which was placed near a small light- 
 
 443319
 
 38 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 wood fire in the great fireplace, used for light 
 rather than heat. 
 
 The old slave, Ezekiel, sat upon a short pine 
 log, while Leonidas, as invited, sat upon the 
 cricket. 
 
 "Mars Lonny, I wants ter know jes why yers out 
 dis kin' o'night?" persisted Uncle Zeke. "Don't 
 yer hyar dat wind er blowin' ? I feels sorry for yer 
 ef yer had ter cum out hyar. Tell me, Mars Lon 
 ny ; I wants ter know. 
 
 "Uncle Zeke," said Leonidas, as his lips trembled 
 with emotion, "my father has sent me away from 
 home." 
 
 "Yer don't mean dat, Mars Lonny, duz yer?" 
 asked Zeke, feelingly. "Mars Darwood's allers bin 
 kin' ter yer, hain't he, Mars Lonny?" 
 
 "Yes, father has always been kind before, and 
 he is simply mistaken now," answered Leonidas, 
 sadly. 
 
 "It's sprizin' ter me, Mars Lonny, sprizin' dat 
 Mars Darwood driv' yer 'way frum home dout no- 
 whars ter go 'ceps Zeke's cabin. Has yer bin doin' 
 sumthin' bad, Mars Lonny?" ventured Zeke, with 
 a note of apology in his voice. 
 
 "I don't think so, Uncle Zeke, but my father and 
 I differ as to what is right and what is wrong. He 
 thinks that I am wrong, and I say that I am right. 
 We seem to be so far apart in our ideas that we 
 can't remain under the same roof." 
 
 "So yers bin spattin' 'bout sumthin' wid Mars 
 Darwood, an' he's dun sent yer 'way frum home. 
 Is dat it?"
 
 UNCLE ZEKE TELLS OF THE DARK DAY 39 
 
 "No, Uncle Zeke, there was no quarrel. I simply 
 could not agree with my father, but I tried to leave 
 home with the best of feeling, and while I have 
 a sad heart for some reasons, I, nevertheless, am 
 happy. You seem not to understand how this can 
 be." 
 
 "Happy, Mars Lonny, an' no whars ter go 'ceps 
 ol' Zeke's shanty? 1 La, chile, I don't see how 'tis 
 dat yer kin be happy." 
 
 "Well, Uncle Zeke," answered Leonidas, "your 
 cabin doesn't leak, even though the storm is so 
 fierce; besides, I'm sure I'm welcome, and that's 
 a great deal. I can't stay long, I know, as Mr. Ar 
 nold might be displeased should he know I am here. 
 So I'll get away as soon as I may." 
 
 "Yers welcum hyar, Mars Lonny, yes, yers wel- 
 cum, an' yer kin stay jes as long as Mars Gabel 
 Arnold don't know it. Mars Gabel am er mighty 
 bad man. Yer don't know how bad Mars Gabel 
 am ; an' ef he knowd yer wus hyar, he'd be mighty 
 mad an' s'picious, too. He's bin s'picious of folks 
 lately, I tells yer, an' don't want nobody 'bout hyar. 
 When anybody cums on de farm, Mars Gabel wants 
 ter know dar bisness right soon, I jes tells yer." 
 
 "Doesn't he have anybody come to see him?" 
 queried Leonidas, hoping to induce the negro to 
 talk further of Arnold's life. 
 
 "I knows of but one man dat cums hyar now, 
 Mars Lonny, an' he cums hyar nights, an' goes 
 
 'The term "shanty," though of Irish origin, is used interchangeably with 
 "cabin" by the negroes of the Dismal Swamp region of Virginia. This is 
 probably to be accounted for by the fact that the Irish people were the 
 first to find their way into the habitable places of the Great Swamp. They 
 have left behind characteristic names for several localities, such as "Shilla- 
 lah," "Ballahack," et cetera.
 
 4O IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 'way 'foe mornin.' Dat looks funny, now don't it, 
 Mars Lonny, fur dat man ter cum hyar, an' go 'way 
 'foe daylight? He don't think Zeke eber sees him, 
 nuther duz Mars Gabriel; but I has seed him, an' I 
 tells yer, I's scyard er him." 
 
 "Why are you afraid of him, Uncle Zeke?" 
 "Kaise I don't know why he cums hyar nights," 
 replied the old slave, and in his manner it was 
 plain to see that he had a suspicion that the strange 
 man, whoever he might be, meant no good in his 
 visits to Briarcrest. 
 
 On his way to Uncle Zeke's cabin, in a flash of 
 lightning, Leonidas had seen a man dodge quickly 
 behind a tree. He could not describe him. He had 
 merely seen the man, but he felt certain that the 
 nocturnal visitor whp had excited Uncle Zeke's 
 suspicion and fear was no other than the man be 
 hind the tree. It would be unwise, he felt, to let 
 Uncle Zeke know that he had seen a strange man, 
 and probably the one to whom he referred. He was 
 far more concerned to know something about Ga 
 briel Arnold than the mysterious stranger, no mat 
 ter how significant and suspicious this man's pres 
 ence at Briarcrest might be. If Arnold objected to 
 everyone except the stranger approaching him, this 
 aloofness would certainly stand as a serious obstacle 
 in the way of his own wish to enjoy the society of 
 Isabel. Leonidas had no fear that it was the pleas 
 ure of Isabel's society which induced the midnight 
 visits of the stranger, but he feared that Arnold 
 might, upon the slightest provocation, or no provo 
 cation, look upon himself as an enemy.
 
 UNCLE ZEKE TELLS OF THE DARK DAY 41 
 
 From Isabel's anxiety while at the myrtle thick 
 et, Leonidas knew there was a grave reason, at least 
 to her mind, why he should not desire to come into 
 contact with her uncle. What that reason was he 
 did not know, but thought he might learn some 
 thing from Uncle Zeke upon which to base a con 
 jecture. Drawing his cricket nearer, laying his 
 hand carelessly upon the old man's knee, and look 
 ing into his eyes, Leonidas attempted to lead Zeke's 
 speech toward the relation of what he desired to 
 know. 
 
 "Uncle Zeke, you said a moment ago that Mr. 
 Arnold was a bad man. In what respect is he bad ? 
 You know a man may be very bad in some particu 
 lars, and fairly good in others. For example, he 
 may be unkind to those about him, but at the same 
 time be perfectly correct in his moral character and 
 in the business world be counted honest, while, on 
 the other hand, a man may be absolutely kind, un 
 usually so, and he may be dishonest in his dealings. 
 Bad temper and an evil disposition may be the re 
 sult of bodily disorder, while dishonesty comes 
 from a wicked moral nature. When a man is dis 
 honest it is because he is bad at heart, but a man 
 with simply an evil disposition sometimes deserves 
 our sympathy. In what way is Mr. Arnold bad ? Is 
 he simply unkind to his slaves? It may be that 
 some of them deserve all they get." 
 
 "Mars Gabel hain't got no slaves now, 'ceps me 
 an' Dinah," said Zeke, beginning to show unusual 
 interest in the conversation. His countenance 
 changed, and his eyes snapped.
 
 42 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "What has become of his slaves?" pursued Le- 
 onidas. "He had a great many at one time, I'm 
 told." 
 
 "Mars Gabel Arnold got so mean an' poe, dat da 
 couldn't stay hyar," said Zeke, with much earnest 
 ness. 
 
 "Well, where " 
 
 "But, hoi' on, Mars Lonny, an' I's gwine fur ter 
 tell yer 'bout it. Mars Gabel got so poe frum gam- 
 lin' on his game chickins, dat he had ter sell a nig 
 ger now an' den ter git some moe money. His chick- 
 ins nebber wus so good as Mars John Gudbed's an' 
 Mars Wash Buttin's. Da uster beat him bad, an' 
 got er power o' money out'n Mars Gabel, I tells 
 yer. Den he lose er power o' money bettin' on ol' 
 Club Foot in de races. Mars Gabel uster bet an' 
 brag on ol' Club Foot, but he nebber wus so fas' as 
 Mars John Gudbed's leetle Sail. 'Twixt de chickin' 
 fightin' an' de hoss racin', Mars Gabel's got mighty 
 mean an' poe, I tells yer. So, Mars Lonny, he dun 
 sol' de blacks ter de traders ter be tuck 'way down 
 ter Alabam. Den he got so mean an' bad, an' beat 
 de udder blacks so hard, dat dem dat wusn't sol' 
 lef Mars Gabel an' tuck ter de swamp deed da 
 did. De las' dat run away wus Pompey. He sot 
 de dogs on poe ol' Pompey, an' da obertuck 'im an' 
 kill 'im in de swamp. Ef he could er run er leetle 
 furder, an' got ter Mars Crane's on Culpepper 
 Islan', den de dogs couldn't cotch 'im. Mars Crane 
 takes cyar ob de black folks, he duz. Mars Lonny, 
 de islan' am de boss place fur de runaways. Now, 
 Mars Lonny, 'twix dem da tuck ter Alabam, an'
 
 UNCLE ZEKE TELLS OF THE DARK DAY 43 
 
 dem dat tuck ter de swamp, da've all gone 'ceps 
 me an' Dinah. An' Mars Gabel hain't gwine ter 
 sell me an' Dinah. Yes, Mars Lonny, Mars Gabel 
 dun sol' de blacks ter git money. Dat wus bad, 
 now wusn't it? But Mars Gabel dun worse'n dat 
 jes ter git er leetle money." This last was uttered 
 by Zeke with a significant look and tone. 
 
 Leonidas seemed not to grasp the statement of 
 the old man, so interested was he in the disappear 
 ance of the slaves and the manner of their going. 
 Presently he spoke again: 
 
 "Then he is not so unkind to you and Aunt Di 
 nah as he was to the other slaves, is he?" 
 
 "No surree!" replied Uncle Zeke, with much 
 earnestness. "No surree, dat he hain't. Mars Ga- 
 bel's er mighty bad man, but he hain't bad ter me an' 
 Dinah no moe. He uster be, but he hain't now." 
 
 "There must be something good in Mr. Arnold 
 after all, Uncle Zeke, or he would not be good to 
 you and Aunt Dinah. If he were all bad he would 
 have treated you just as he treated all the other 
 slaves, and by this time you would have gone to the 
 swamp. A person may be more bad than good, but 
 there is something good in the worst man, and once 
 in a while the good will show itself." 
 
 "Mars Lonny," said Zeke, shaking his head, "ef 
 yer thinks ebrybody's good, yers gwine ter be 
 mighty fooled. Dars lots ob bad folks in dis world, 
 an' da'se got no good in um, nuther. Mars Gabel's 
 one ob dat kin', an' I knows it. When yer knows 
 'im lak ol' Zeke, yer'll say right lak me, dat he's 
 er mighty bad man. I knows Mars Gabel, I dus."
 
 44 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "But, Uncle Zeke, the fact that he is kind to you 
 and Aunt Dinah shows good impulses." 
 
 "La sakes, Mars Lonny, yer don't know Mars 
 Gabel Arnold," said Zeke, with animation in his 
 voice, and with flashing eyes. "He's good ter me 
 an' my ol' ooman, kaise he can't hep hissef. Zeke 
 knows too much fur Mars Gabel. I knows right 
 smart what he don't want me fur ter know, but I 
 knows it, all de same, an' " 
 
 Here the old man paused, as if he felt that he 
 had said more than he intended. Recovering him 
 self, after a moment of embarrassing silence, he 
 said, "Yes surree, Mars Lonny, Mars Gabel uster 
 'buse me an' Dinah, but he don't do dat now." 
 
 "How long since he has changed toward you and 
 Aunt Dinah, and why has he changed ?" asked Le- 
 onidas. Seeing that Uncle Zeke became agitated 
 by his question he continued : "Uncle Zeke, you 
 also said that Mr. Arnold kept to himself more 
 closely of late than he formerly did. How do you 
 account for this change? If he has no company 
 but the strange man who comes at night only, there 
 must be a reason for it. Do you know what it is ?" 
 
 The old man became more and more excited, but 
 hesitated to speak. Leonidas realized that he was 
 probing too deeply into a tender spot. The old 
 slave arose and hobbled back and forth across the 
 floor several times, then quickening his steps, he 
 hurried to where Leonidas was sitting, before he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Mars Lonny, Zeke knows all 'bout dat. I knows 
 jes why Mars Gabel hain't mean ter me an' Di-
 
 UNCLE ZEKE TELLS OF THE DARK DAY 45 
 
 nah; an' I knows jes why he don't want folks ter 
 cum ter see him, an' why he's so s'picious. But I 
 don't know why dat strange man cums hyar nights. 
 No, I don't know dat." 
 
 "Never mind the strange man," said Leonidas. 
 "Tell me about this change in Mr. Arnold, and why 
 it is so, and how long he has been so different." 
 
 "It's bin sence de 'Dark Day.' Now, don't ax 
 me no moe," implored Zeke, showing greater nerv 
 ousness than he had at any time before. 
 
 "What was the 'Dark Day,' Uncle Zeke?" per 
 sisted Leonidas. "Do you mean the day of the 
 eclipse?" 
 
 "I don't know 'bout de 'clipse what dat is," said 
 Zeke, impressively, "but I knows dar wus er mighty 
 dark day, when de chickins went ter roost in de 
 broad daytime. Yes surree, da went ter roost in 
 de daytime, an' de niggers got mighty pious an' 
 scyard, an' wanted ter git 'ligion mighty bad. Sence 
 dat day, Mars Lonny, Mars Gabel hain't beat me 
 an' Dinah. Sence dat day, he's bin s'picious ob de 
 folks dat cum hyar, an' now he don't hab nobody 
 'ceps dat strange man what I's bin tellin' yer 'bout, 
 what allers cums hyar nights a lookin' round." 
 
 At this statement, Uncle Zeke's voice trembled 
 with emotion, and his large frame shook from head 
 to foot. He acted as though some terrible recollec 
 tion was forcing itself upon his memory, in spite 
 of his wish. He threw his hands up to his head, 
 and dropped his covered face on young Darwood's 
 knees. Between his sobs he cried, "Dat 'Dark 
 Day', oh,--dat 'Dark-Day!'" Then, as if his
 
 46 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 heart would break, he blurted out, "De pine 
 woods, de pine woods !" 
 
 After a moment he arose quickly, took a large 
 hickory cane standing in the corner near the fire 
 place, and with it staggered across the cabin floor. 
 He opened the door as if to go out into the storm 
 which was still raging, but Leonidas hurried to him 
 and putting his arms around him, drew him back 
 to the pine log seat. 
 
 Uncle Zeke sat for a time silently staring into the 
 fire without seeing it. He was like a man in a 
 stupor. At that moment he could think of nothing 
 but the "Dark Day" and the tragedy then enacted, 
 which, ever since, had burdened his life. 
 
 Leonidas put his hand on the old man's shoulder 
 to attract his attention, and began : "Uncle Zeke, 
 what" 
 
 Before another word could be spoken, the old 
 man recovered sufficiently to say protestingly : "No, 
 Mars Lonny, don't ax me dat; but Mars Gabel 
 Arnold*s er mighty bad man. Mars Gabel Ar 
 nold's er mighty bad man."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 ZEKE MAKES A DISCOVERY 
 
 IT was now early morning, and the storm had al 
 most spent itself. While it had been raging in all 
 its fury, whistling through the crevices of the old 
 cabin, and moaning in the tree tops, with now and 
 then a great sycamore, falling heavily before the 
 rush of some tremendous blast, the conversation had 
 continued, except when an extraordinary gust of 
 wind threatened the safety of the cabin. In the lull 
 which followed Leonidas and Uncle Zeke ceased 
 speaking neither could have told why. They 
 gazed at each other until the silence became op 
 pressive. The storm had blown so long and furi 
 ously that they became accustomed to its sound. 
 When quiet was restored it seemed unusual. They 
 looked at each other with surprise. 
 
 There was a reason for their silence. It came 
 with the quiet that followed the abatement of the 
 storm. It was like the waking of the miller. While 
 the mill runs naturally, and thunders with the noise 
 of a cataract, the miller sleeps peacefully, but if the 
 wheels slip a cog and there is any jostle in the ma 
 chinery he is aroused from his slumber. Or if the 
 great wheel ceases its revolutions, and the clatter 
 of the mill gives place to silence, the miller is 
 aroused. It is the silence now that awakens him.
 
 48 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 It was the sound before. In either case, it was sim 
 ply the unusual that disturbed his sleep. 
 
 Presently Leonidas asked, "Uncle Zeke, is Mr. 
 Arnold kind to Miss Isabel ?" 
 
 "No, Mars Lonny, dat he hain't. Dat man hain't 
 kin' ter nobody 'ceps me an' Dinah." 
 
 "Is he unkind to her?" asked Leonidas, with 
 strong feeling in his voice. 
 
 "Yes sur, Mars Lonny, dat man's mean ter her. 
 But what yer know 'bout Missis Bel?" asked Zeke, 
 glancing searchingly at his questioner. 
 
 "I have seen her several times," admitted Le 
 onidas, "and I was greatly pleased with her; but 
 she always looked sad to me, and I have often won 
 dered if Mr. Arnold and his sister, Betty, were as 
 kind to her as they might be." 
 
 "No, da hain't," responded the old man, warmly. 
 "Tuther day, Mars Gabel tuck Missis Bel out'n ter 
 de beech tree stump, an' don't yer know he wus 
 gwine ter flog her right lak he uster de leetle blacks ? 
 I wus stanin' wid my back 'gin de big sicamoe, an' I 
 couldn't stan' an' see dat gal treated dat way. 
 Missis Bel's too good fur dat, fur she hadn't dun 
 nuffin.' So I jes walks ter Mars Gabel, an' puts 
 my han' on 'im, and sed, 'Mars Gabel, don't yer hit 
 her wid dat whip, kaise she don't 'zarb it/ An' I 
 tells yer, Mars Lonny, he didn't hit her den, an' he 
 hain't hit her nebber sence when ol' Zeke wus 
 'round. He hain't furgot de 'Dark Day.' " 
 
 The recollection of the "Dark Day" caused the 
 old man to stagger and fall back upon the pine 
 stump.
 
 ZEKE MAKES A DISCOVERY 49 
 
 "I have an interest in Miss Isabel, and it is partly 
 on her account that I am away from home now," 
 said Leonidas, as soon as Uncle Zeke had recovered 
 his composure. 
 
 "What yer means by dat?" asked Uncle Zeke, 
 eagerly. "What Missis Bel dun?" 
 
 "I want to tell you a story," said Leonidas. "I 
 am sure you will be interested." 
 
 "Yes, indeedy, Mars Lonny, I wants ter hyar 
 'bout why yers away f rum home, an' why yers in ol' 
 Zeke's shanty. Go on, Mars Lonny. I's dyin' ter 
 hyar." 
 
 "My father ordered me out of his house early 
 yesterday evening, because of two things. One con 
 cerns my religious convictions, and the other con 
 cerns Isabel Proctor. My father does not believe 
 in a God, or in the Bible; and I do. It made him 
 violently angry when I told him that I had deter 
 mined to live a Christian life. The particular point 
 of disagreement between us has to do with the 
 proper treatment of the different classes of society, 
 and" 
 
 "What yer means by dat, Mars Lonny?" inter 
 rupted Zeke. 
 
 "I mean simply this," replied the young man, 
 "my father, because of his fortune and the high 
 position of the Darwood family, thinks it right to 
 make a great distinction between the rich and the 
 poor. He thinks money and position in the world 
 make some people better than others who have 
 neither of these. Christ denied this distinction, and 
 made all such questions a matter of religion. I have
 
 50 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 come to believe that a man cannot be a Christian 
 and live up to the requirements of the Sermon on 
 the Mount if he holds such opinions. Christ pro 
 nounced blessings upon the poor in spirit, the 
 mourners and those persecuted for righteousness' 
 sake, and never said once that a man is any better 
 because he is rich. Jesus never made any distinc 
 tion on account of a man's riches, but always went 
 to those who needed Him most. My father says 
 I'm crazy, but the matter seems so important to me 
 that I have resolved to live according to the teach 
 ing of Jesus as found in the Bible. My father ob 
 jects very seriously to this." 
 
 "Why dus Mars Darwood 'ject ter dat?" asked 
 Uncle Zeke. 
 
 "He knows it will lead me to associate with poor 
 people, and he does not consider them worthy of a 
 Darwood's attention. He is fond of speaking 
 slightingly of the 'poor white trash and negroes.' I 
 have told him I consider this cruel. He claims to 
 see a difference in my life since I became a convert 
 to this doctrine, and becomes furious when it is 
 mentioned. He declared that I should change my 
 opinions or leave home, and I have left home, Uncle 
 Zeke." 
 
 When Leonidas concluded this part of his story, 
 he was curious to know its effect upon Uncle Zeke's 
 mind, for he believed the old man would enter large 
 ly into the immediate events of his life, somehow or 
 other, either for weal or woe, and form an impor 
 tant factor in the shaping of his destiny. 
 
 "Mars Lonny, yers dun egzackly right. De good
 
 ZEKE MAKES A DISCOVERY 51 
 
 Book sez sumthin' 'bout us worshipin' de Lord 
 under er vine an' fig tree widout folks darin' ter 'lest 
 us. When yer couldn't sarb de Lord at home, fur 
 de cussedness ob yer ol' dad, yer did egzackly right 
 ter lebe 'im. But it'll be mighty bad fur ol' Mars 
 Darwood when de good Lord gits hold'n him," said 
 Zeke, not without a touch of satisfaction at the pros 
 pect. 
 
 "I'm glad you approve my decision, Uncle Zeke," 
 said Leonidas, feeling that in the old negro he had 
 a friend who could now be taken into his confidence 
 and trusted implicitly with everything that con 
 cerned him or his future. 
 
 "Mars Lonny," remarked Uncle Zeke, with delib 
 eration, "yer tol' me 'bout yer ligus 'victions, but 
 yer hain't tol' me what yer dad's got 'gin Missis 
 Bel. What dat gal hab ter do wid yer an' Mars 
 Darwood ? Dat's what I'd lak ter know." 
 
 "She had nothing whatever to do with that. She's 
 as innocent as an angel, but my father imagines 
 that there is an intimacy between us that might 
 prove serious after a while." 
 
 "What yer means by dat, Mars Lonny?" asked 
 Zeke. 
 
 "My father has seen me a few times with Miss 
 Isabel. I have met her in different places. Once 
 at the market place in Crawford Street in town. I 
 was talking with her when my father came up. 
 When I went home he said I was getting entirely 
 too intimate with 'that Proctor girl.' He objected 
 to my becoming intimate with her for several rea 
 sons. Since the death of her parents and her
 
 52 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 coming to live with Mr. Arnold my father regards 
 her as a servant, and positively forbids my asso 
 ciating with her. While there is nothing but friend 
 ship between Miss Isabel and me, I am acting upon 
 principle, and rather than snub a true and virtuous 
 young woman, simply because she is poor in this 
 world's goods, I would share a similar lot and 
 leave home forever. When quantity of money 
 makes the only distinction between us I don't 
 think it means much, after all. To my mind 
 character is everything, and until I know to the con 
 trary I shall treat Miss Isabel as she deserves to be 
 treated. I told my father this, and he said I might 
 take the servant girl and the Bible and go to the 
 ends of the earth. Uncle Zeke, there's never been 
 a word of love spoken between Miss Isabel and me, 
 but since she has become the partial cause of my 
 leaving home I feel a strange, new interest in her. 
 And last night I can't tell why a strange feeling 
 came over me. As we stood in the path near the 
 myrtle thicket, and I held her hand " 
 
 "La sakes, Mars Lonny," interrupted the old 
 man, rising as he spoke, "did yer see Missis Bel 
 in all dat storm las' night?" 
 
 "I met her at the myrtle thicket, just before the 
 storm. She had been looking for a doctor. I hadn't 
 time to explain what I have told you, but I saw her 
 safely to Mr. Arnold's door and the storm came 
 upon me before I could make my way here. It was 
 Miss Isabel who told me to come here, and that I 
 would find a welcome ; and, when I clasped her hand 
 in mine, my heart throbbed faster. Until last night,
 
 ZEKE MAKES A DISCOVERY 53 
 
 when I met her, all young women were the same 
 to me. The fact that my father objected to her for 
 the reasons he assigned created a sympathy and ten 
 derness for her; but since I bade her good-bye at 
 the veranda my feeling is more than sympathy, and 
 it is not tenderness, simply. It is more. I can't 
 explain it. I I fear " 
 
 "La bless my ol' soul, Mars Lonny," shouted the 
 old negro, gleefully, "I knows what dat is! I 
 knows egzackly what 'tis. Yer luvs Missis Bel, an' 
 I knows it." 
 
 "I am not so sure, Uncle Zeke," replied young 
 Darwood, smiling at the negro's delight, "whether 
 it is love or not, but I am certain my interest in her 
 is very great ; and I have a desire to see her and to be 
 with her all the time, which was not the case before. 
 I am glad I left home on her account. Yes, I could 
 die for her !" 
 
 Uncle Zeke made no comment upon this outburst, 
 but went about preparing breakfast. When it was 
 over, and a fresh log was laid upon the fire, Le- 
 onidas drew from his pocket the little gold watch 
 his mother had pressed into his hand the evening 
 before, and remarked, in an undertone: 
 
 "It's 'most time for her to be here, and I shall 
 soon see her again." 
 
 "What's dat, Mars Lonny?" asked Uncle Zeke, 
 with surprise. "Is Missis Bel cumin' ter ol' Zeke's 
 cabin? Did she say she wus cumin'? Ef she sed 
 so, she'll be hyar min' dat. An' she'll be hyar on 
 de tick ob dat watch. She's er gal ob her word, 
 she is." 
 
 5
 
 54 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Zeke; she's coming," answered Le- 
 onidas, recalling every word and movement of Isa 
 bel as she bade him good night and whispered, lest 
 some one might hear, "You may expect me at nine."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 AT NINE IN THE MORNING 
 
 WHILE Isabel was attending to her chores, both 
 indoors and out, the parting words of Leonidas 
 as he and she had stood by the veranda recurred 
 to her over and over, and she wondered what the 
 words could mean: "My story concerns my relig 
 ious convictions, and and you." How he had 
 hesitated and stammered, and how his voice had 
 trembled as he endeavored to say, "and and 
 you!" 
 
 Isabel had never made a promise that she felt 
 more anxious to keep than the one to meet Leonidas 
 at nine o'clock that morning. As the tall clock in 
 the hall of Arnold's house struck nine Isabel rapped 
 at the door of Uncle Zeke's cabin. 
 
 "There Miss Isabel is now," said Leonidas. 
 "That must be her knocking. Listen !" 
 
 "Dat's so, Mars Lonny, I tol' yer dat Missis Bel 
 would be hyar on de tick ob dat watch, an' hyar she 
 am," said Zeke, as he crossed the room with un 
 usual activity, and threw the door wide open. "Cum 
 in, Missis Bel," said Zeke, with hearty welcome, 
 "hyar's Mars Lonny Darwood." 
 
 Isabel stepped into the cabin, and stood by young 
 Darwood's side. Her dress of coarse linen, plainly 
 made, was singularly becoming. The light-figured
 
 $6 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 shawl, of richer texture and brighter hue, which 
 dropped lightly about her shoulders, seemed espe 
 cially designed for her. She was a trifle above me 
 dium height, and just plump enough to make her 
 proportions perfect. The contour of her face and 
 her features were regular and the complexion was 
 of a pearly clearness. Her mouth was well formed 
 and firmly set, drooping slightly at the corners, in 
 dicating a serious and firm character. Under brows 
 almost semicircular in form beamed forth eyes of a 
 glorious brown. Her heavy dark hair, arranged to 
 hang in large puffs, seemed to have both noon and 
 midnight light in its rich sheen. 
 
 As she looked up into the eyes of Leonidas she 
 could not control the delightful emotion which flut 
 tered her breast. Her heart beat faster than was 
 its wont, and drove the blood into her usually pale 
 face. Her lips quivered as she endeavored to speak, 
 and her fingers played nervously at the waist of her 
 dress. She wondered all the while if Leonidas 
 could detect her emotions, or see that she was not 
 calm. She noted his stalwart form, and saw the 
 strong character in his handsome face. Could the 
 mysterious influence of his presence upon her mean 
 that she already loved him? 
 
 She was anxious to hear the story of Leonidas's 
 banishment from home, and deferred the account 
 of her own experiences of the night before thrill 
 ing though they were. 
 
 "Are you ready, now, to tell me what happened 
 yesterday?" asked Isabel with a great effort at 
 composure, though her heart was beating like that
 
 AT NINE IN THE MORNING 57 
 
 of a panting deer just escaping from a long and 
 exciting chase. 
 
 Leonidas related at some length the interview 
 with his father, explaining how emphatic had been 
 the older man's demands. 
 
 "Miss Proctor, there was no other course open to 
 me than the one I have chosen. My father was de 
 termined, and you know that a compromised re 
 ligion is no religion at all. I could neither accept 
 nor propose a compromise." 
 
 "I understand that part of your story," said Isa 
 bel, "and I fully justify your course. But I am cu 
 rious to know just how I can be concerned in your 
 departure from home." 
 
 Leonidas hesitated for a moment, and wondered 
 how he might say to Isabel just what was in his 
 heart, without appearing too abrupt. Now that he 
 was face to face with her it was not so easy a task. 
 
 Uncle Zeke, with fine courtesy, knowing what 
 Leonidas was likely to say to Isabel, had taken his 
 hickory cane and gone out to view the wreckage of 
 the great storm. 
 
 "Miss Proctor," began Leonidas with tender hes 
 itancy, "my father is a proud man, and forbids my 
 having anything to do with you, because he thinks 
 you are below my station socially. He has seen us 
 several times together, and suspects there is more 
 than friendship between us. He became violently 
 exasperated when I told the truth concerning it. 
 He positively protested against my giving you any 
 attention, as an equal, with the penalty of having to 
 leave home if I disobeyed his command."
 
 58 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 At the last statement, Isabel became deadly pale. 
 With a trembling voice, and a nervous movement 
 of her bloodless lips, she said, faltering between 
 her words: "Mr. Darwood, and you didn't 
 agree to have nothing to do with me? 
 I'm nothing to you. Why should you 
 leave home on my account ?" 
 
 "No," replied Leonidas, and his countenance 
 grew eloquent with feeling. "No, Miss Proctor, I 
 did not agree. My father had no right to make 
 such a demand. I am determined to treat you as 
 you deserve to be treated, and when I had no al 
 ternative but to be discourteous to you or leave 
 home I did not hesitate to make the choice. I am 
 proud to have so chosen." 
 
 Leonidas, reading the emotions in Isabel's elo 
 quent eyes, and drawing closer to where she stood, 
 said in a somewhat unsteady voice: "Miss Proc 
 tor, you said you were nothing to me when I 
 left home on your account. You are now ; aren't 
 you?" 
 
 The speech was painful in its hesitancy. He ven 
 tured to lift her hand within an inch or two of his 
 lips. 
 
 Isabel perceived where an answer to the ques 
 tion might end, and was not prepared for the end 
 ing. As it appeared to her, it was a direct question, 
 and an answer might be vital. There were other 
 matters with which her heart was throbbing which 
 must be settled before she could dispose of the ques 
 tion with a monosyllable. 
 
 "Miss Proctor," said Leonidas, still holding her
 
 AT NINE IN THE MORNING 59 
 
 hand, "you do not answer, and, though you hesi 
 tate, permit me to say that you are more to me than 
 anyone else in the whole world." 
 
 The blood rushed to Isabel's face, and a peculiar 
 sensation disturbed her. She trembled violently 
 and realized that she could no longer pretend not 
 to understand the drift of Leonidas's words. 
 
 "Do you mean, Mr. Darwood, that you 
 that you " stammered Isabel, "what did 
 you say?" 
 
 "There is no reason for longer concealing the 
 truth. I mean that I love you. You are all the 
 world to me, and you have been since our chance 
 meeting at the myrtles. Did I say chance? I mean 
 providential. I cannot express what you mean to 
 me, Miss Proctor." He now pressed her hand to 
 his lips, holding it there for what to Isabel seemed 
 an age. Then placing one of his arms around her, 
 and looking into her eyes, he whispered : 
 
 "Don't call me Mr. Darwood again; call me Le- 
 onidas. May I call you Isabel ?" 
 
 The question was scarcely uttered when the 
 cabin door opened quickly, and Uncle Zeke came 
 stumbling in without ceremony. 
 
 "Mars Gabel's crazy ergin, Missis Bel," blurted 
 out the old man, as he nearly fell upon the floor. 
 "Yes, indeedy, Mars Gabel's crazy ergin, an' he's 
 holrin', an' er cryin'; an' den he sez, 'Jack, Jack, 
 take de wretch away.' I's scyard fur yer, Mars 
 Lonny. Is dat strange man, what I's bin tellin' yer 
 'bout, name Jack? Is dat who Mars Gabel means, 
 Missis Bel?"
 
 60 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Isabel knew from the few words spoken by Uncle 
 Zeke that her Uncle Gabriel was in the throes of 
 one of his paroxysms, and that it was necessary for 
 her to hurry to his side. The anxious expression of 
 her face indicated that she was greatly concerned 
 at the information. 
 
 "Be on your guard/' said Isabel, anxiously, ad 
 dressing Leonidas. 
 
 "Why?" asked Leonidas. "Why are you so con 
 cerned ?" 
 
 "Last night," responded Isabel, hesitating, "last 
 night a rough man came to my Uncle Gabriel's 
 room, and they talked until four o'clock; and the 
 strange man knew you were here, and told Uncle 
 Gabriel." 
 
 "Did they say anything about me?" asked Le 
 onidas, with some concern in his tone. 
 
 "Yes, much," answered Isabel. "Uncle Gabriel 
 is afraid of you, since you came to Uncle Zeke's, 
 and he wants this rough man to get you out of the 
 way, and I feel sure he will accomplish your ruin 
 if he can. It appears that he lives in the swamp; 
 and that Uncle Gabriel wishes him, in some way, to 
 take you where he lives. My uncle said he wanted 
 you out of the way at almost any cost ; still he didn't 
 want this man to kill you. Do be careful." 
 
 Isabel left Leonidas and Uncle Zeke exchanging 
 meaning looks, and hurried back to her uncle be 
 fore Leonidas could have further speech with her.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 IN THE PINE WOODS 
 
 AFTER considerable deliberation Leonidas de 
 cided to seek counsel from Dr. Demster as to what 
 course he had best pursue. The doctor was a be 
 nevolent and respected, though somewhat feared, 
 old man, who lived at Deep Creek. As he made 
 his simple preparation for the journey he wondered 
 what the physician would think of his action, and 
 whether he would understand what a crisis the in 
 terview between his father and himself had been. 
 
 Uncle Zeke was busy, meanwhile, preparing din 
 ner for Leonidas, and when the meal was ready 
 both he and the old slave sat together at the rough 
 pine table. The meal was plainer than any that 
 had ever before been set before young Darwood, 
 and consisted of a johnnycake, a slice of fat bacon, 
 a yam baked in the ashes, and a bowl of pot-liquor 
 saved from the day before. There was no dessert, 
 and the cooking was of the crudest and most prim 
 itive sort known to Southern life. Leonidas, how 
 ever, did not find it difficult to adapt himself to cir 
 cumstances and partook gratefully of the rough 
 meal, which was sweetened by the hospitality of 
 Uncle Zeke. 
 
 "Uncle Zeke," said Leonidas, as they rose from 
 the table, "it is time for me to start for Deep Creek.
 
 62 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 It's eight miles, you know, and I want to get there 
 before dark. Which is the best way out, so as to 
 attract the least attention? If I am seen by Mr. 
 Arnold's sister, Betty, it will excite suspicion, and 
 start a great many questions as to why I am here, 
 though, from what Isabel says, my presence is al 
 ready suspected." 
 
 "Mars Lonny," said Uncle Zeke, "yer jes slip 
 out'n de back doe, an' down jam by de line of sica- 
 moes ter de gate. Mabbe nobody won't see yer. 
 When yet gits haf way down de sicamoe lane, dars 
 er path dat cuts through dat pine woods. Mars Lon 
 ny, yer jes keep under de sicamoes. Min' now, what 
 I's tellin' yer. Don't go through dat pine woods. 
 Dars er branch dat runs through de woods, but, 
 Mars Lonny, I ax yer not ter go ter dat branch. Keep 
 out'n de pine woods." As Zeke uttered these words 
 his voice faltered; his limbs trembled, and he 
 dropped back upon the stool where Leonidas had 
 been sitting. 
 
 The appeal in both word and voice, and the pe 
 culiar advice about the pine woods, and the branch, 
 aroused the interest of young Darwood. His curi 
 osity had been so recently excited at Uncle Zeke's 
 mention of the "Dark Day," that as he stood look 
 ing into the old man's eyes he wondered if there 
 were any connection between the "Dark Day," the 
 "pine woods," and the "branch." 
 
 "Uncle Zeke, why don't you want me to go 
 through the pine woods ? It is a much nearer way, 
 and I should not be so likely to attract attention. 
 Once in the woods, I should be sure to get off the
 
 IN THE PINE WOODS 63 
 
 farm without being seen. When I reach the road, 
 there will be no questions for you to answer. You 
 see it is far better for all of us, Miss Isabel, you 
 and myself, for me to go through the woods." 
 
 "It looks dat way ter yer, Mars Lonny," the old 
 slave reluctantly admitted, "but ol' Zeke tells yer not 
 ter go through dat pine woods, an' down by dat 
 branch. Min' what I tells yer, Mars Lonny. I 
 means what I sez. Don't yer go in dat woods." 
 
 "But why shouldn't I go, Uncle Zeke?" persisted 
 Leonidas. "I should like to know. There is nothing 
 in there to hurt me, is there?" 
 
 "Y-e-e-e-e-s surree, dar am, Mars Lonny," pro 
 tested Uncle Zeke, becoming more and more ner 
 vous, "dars er ghost in dat pine woods ; an' he walks 
 up an' down de branch, an' wades in de worter; 
 an' when he gits tard er walkin' he sets down under 
 er big pine tree, an' hols his han' up ter his head; 
 an' I knows jes why he hols his han' up ter his 
 head, too." 
 
 "And so you think there is a ghost in the woods, 
 do you, Uncle Zeke?" 
 
 "Y-e-e-e-e-s surree, dat I duz. I knows it right 
 smart. I's dun seed dat ghost; an' he dun jes lak 
 I tells yer," said Zeke, in a trembling voice, as he 
 observed that Leonidas was a trifle skeptical about 
 the presence of the ghost. 
 
 "How long has the ghost been in the woods ?" 
 
 Uncle Zeke hesitated for a moment, arose from 
 the cricket, and walked back and forth across the 
 floor. Tremulously, and with evidence of great 
 uneasiness, he finally said, "Mars Lonny, dat ghost
 
 64 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 dun bin in dat woods ebber sence de 'Dark Day' 
 what I's bin tellin' yer 'bout." 
 
 "Whose ghost do you suppose it is? and why do 
 you think it stays in that particular piece of woods ? 
 Why has it been in there only since the 'Dark Day?' 
 Have you never seen the ghost anywhere else but 
 in the pine woods?" 
 
 "Don't ax me dat, Mars Lonny," said the old 
 man, shuddering at the fire of questions. "Zeke 
 knows, but he hain't gwine ter tell dat." In his agi 
 tation he sank from the stool into a heap upon the 
 floor. 
 
 Leonidas stepped quickly to the old man and 
 helped him to the seat, conjecturing that there must 
 be some vital connection between the "Dark Day" 
 and the ghost of the pine woods. 
 
 "Never mind, Uncle Zeke, I am not afraid of 
 ghosts, and I think I will go through the pine 
 woods, anyhow. It is so much nearer and seems 
 to me to be the best way to avoid discovery." 
 
 This brought the old slave to his feet, though 
 with considerable effort. He stood in front of Le 
 onidas, and looking into his eyes said, in a beseech 
 ing tone, "Fur God's sake, Mars Lonny, don't go 
 in dat woods." 
 
 "All right, Uncle Zeke, don't worry about me. 
 I'll do the best thing. You leave the way to me. 
 You have told me the two, and now I'll make the 
 selection. Uncle Zeke, I'll never forget your kind 
 ness to me," said Leonidas. "The* time may come 
 when I can return the favor. If it ever does, I shall 
 not forget you."
 
 IN THE PINE WOODS 65 
 
 "Don't tell 'bout dat now, Mars Lonny; Zeke's 
 gwine ter hep yer when he kin. Ef he kin hep yer 
 ter git Missis Bel, he's gwine ter do dat, too." 
 
 "Thank you. I may need your help, Uncle Zeke. 
 I mean to get her in spite of them." 
 
 "Yer jes tell ol' Zeke how ter do, an' he'll do it, 
 Mars Lonny," said the old man, earnestly. 
 
 "I may need you in many ways, but you can 
 more than likely be of service to me in getting word 
 to Miss Isabel. It may happen that I shall send 
 some word to her, and I shall expect you to take it 
 to her in person. Never deliver it to any one else. 
 If I find a trusty messenger he may be compelled to 
 come at night, and if he does I shall tell him to rap 
 on your door five times twice very hard, and twice 
 not so hard, and once quite loud again. You will 
 not forget this signal,, will you, Uncle Zeke?" 
 
 "No, Mars Lonny, I shan't furgit. I's got it right 
 now," went on Uncle Zeke, with evident satisfac 
 tion ; "five knocks ; two loud uns, two easy uns, an' 
 den wun moe loud un. Hain't dat it?" 
 
 "That is right." 
 
 Leonidas left the cabin by the back door, and 
 wound his way in and out among the slave huts 
 which still stood at Briarcrest, and the debris which 
 was left strewn around after the great storm, until 
 he entered the lane bounded on both sides by the 
 huge sycamores. As he hurried toward the road 
 way on the east of the farm his mind was busy with 
 thoughts engendered by the conversation with 
 Uncle Zeke. In a moment more Leonidas stood at 
 the entrance of the path which led through the pine
 
 66 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 woods. It was partly obscured by a growth of wild 
 honeysuckles and swamp laurel, but there was no 
 doubt in his mind that this was the one described 
 by Uncle Zeke. He hesitated a moment, debating 
 whether he should take the path or keep on along 
 the road. 
 
 The decision was soon made, and he disappeared 
 in the undergrowth and was soon among the pines. 
 In the midst of the skirt of pines there is a stream 
 that runs lazily through Briarcrest, winding its way 
 without a ripple from one end of the farm to the 
 other. But for the little obstructions of fallen limbs, 
 and the accumulations of pine needles and leaves, 
 the sound of the brook would never be heard save 
 after a great fall of rain, such as was the case on the 
 previous night. Leonidas leaped the stream with 
 the aid of an oak limb that had been dislodged from 
 the tree. As he alighted upon the other side his 
 left foot struck violently against the bank. In the 
 dirt and straw dislodged he discovered what to 
 him looked like a medal. A closer inspection re 
 vealed it to be one of a unique design, the like of 
 which he had never seen before. 
 
 This medal consisted of a cross of ten points made 
 of white enameled metal, edged heavily around with 
 gold, the points of the cross being ornamented be 
 tween with a wreath of laurel. In the center, form 
 ing the body of the cross, was a circle of blue, 
 around the circumference of which were the words, 
 "Napoleon III, Empereur des Franc,ais." In the 
 middle of the azure circle was the profile of the 
 Emperor Louis Napoleon, while over the medal, and
 
 MEDAL OF LEGION OF HONOR OF THE SECOND FRENCH EMPIRE
 
 IN THE PINE WOODS 67 
 
 attached to the points of the cross with links of gold, 
 was a miniature facsimile of the imperial crown of 
 France. This was attached to what seemed to be 
 a piece of faded red ribbon, though it was difficult 
 to tell just what the original color had been. On 
 the ribbon could be distinctly discerned a single 
 spot, darker in color than the surrounding texture. 
 For the curious spot there was no apparent expla 
 nation. 
 
 Leonidas, of course, surmised that the medal was 
 now, or had been, owned by some French noble 
 man. The design upon the face of it indicated that 
 it belonged to one of high rank who had figured 
 conspicuously in the affairs of the Second French 
 Empire, and that the owner of the medal was a 
 member of the Legion of Honor. 
 
 Leonidas knew that the Legion of Honor was a 
 rank of distinction instituted by the great Napoleon. 
 Its object was to counteract the tendencies of royal 
 ty that might be slumbering after the great up 
 heaval. But there is no doubt now that the mem 
 bers were designed by him to be the noblemen of 
 his future Imperialistic Government, which end he 
 always had in mind. So formidable did the Legion 
 become, and so indissolubly a part of France, that 
 even after the fall of Napoleon and the collapse 
 of the Empire it never lost its identity. Despite 
 the instability of the French mind and the many 
 vicissitudes of government whether Consulate, 
 Republic, Empire or Kingdom it did much to 
 shape the nation's policy. 
 
 Under the regime of Napoleon III there were
 
 68 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 changes in the Legion, among which was a modifi 
 cation of the insignia, which now bore his own 
 image and the inscription of the Second Empire. 
 
 Why this medal should be on Arnold's farm, how 
 long it had lain there, and to whom it belonged, 
 were questions which insistently flitted through the 
 brain of Leonidas. The presence of the medal in 
 this obscure spot might be accounted for by the 
 owner's having been hunting in the pine woods and 
 losing it. However, this explanation was not sat 
 isfactory, and the dark spot on the ribbon grew curi 
 ously important to him. From the general appear 
 ance of the medal he judged that it had not been 
 there a great length of time; and though the red 
 ribbon had faded, its state of preservation showed 
 that it had not long been exposed to the elements. 
 The fact that it bore the imprint of the Empire of 
 Napoleon III indicated its recent origin. 
 
 Leonidas was not disposed to be of a mysterious 
 turn of mind, but, despite his effort to look at the 
 finding of the medal in a matter-of-fact way, he felt 
 that in connection with it there must be a strange 
 history. He put the medal in his trousers' pocket 
 and resumed his way through the lonely woods to 
 the Gosport road, speculating on probable solutions 
 of the mystery. When out of the pines he took the 
 medal from his pocket to examine it more closely, 
 and, rubbing it against the sleeve of his coat to re 
 move the dirt still adhering to it, he discovered 
 what he had not seen before: it was in inscription 
 upon the reverse side. 
 
 It was in French, and Leonidas could not get its
 
 IN THE PINE WOODS 69 
 
 full meaning, but the date and name were striking 
 ly significant and suggestive. It consisted of these 
 words: "Adjuge au Comte de Bussy pour des 
 services galants a Magenta et a Solferino en Fan 
 de Grace 1859." 
 
 As Leonidas came to the point where the Gos- 
 port road and the Deep Creek road, leading from 
 Portsmouth, intercept, a rattlesnake lay coiled un 
 der an osage-orange hedge, and, after the manner 
 of his kind, upon hearing the sound of the young 
 man's approach, shook his rattles vigorously, and 
 then sprang several times its length in the direc 
 tion of the intruder. The rattlesnake, being almost 
 sightless and trusting only to sound, missed Le 
 onidas, who was moving at a rapid gait, passed the 
 calf of his leg and dropped twelve inches or more 
 beyond his foot. He instantly realized his danger, 
 and with a hickory stick which he carried dealt 
 one blow which straightened the venomous reptile 
 its full length upon the ground just as it was ready 
 for the second assault. 
 
 As soon as Leonidas recovered from the shock 
 of surprise at the snake's attack he recalled the fact 
 that there is a superstition in Tidewater to the ef 
 fect that a vital relation exists between one's ene 
 mies and a snake. To kill the snake, it is claimed, 
 is to overcome all of one's enemies. Of course, he 
 had no faith in the superstition, but against his will 
 it made its impression on him and filled him with 
 new resolution and courage. 
 
 At dusk Leonidas crossed the bridge over, the 
 stream on which Deep Creek is situated, and entered
 
 70 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 the village. Presently his ear detected a distressed 
 groan as he neared the tavern. He distinctly heard, 
 but could not tell the meaning of the words which 
 he recognized as coming from Ezra, the wounded 
 bear trainer: 
 
 "Gewald! Gewald! In Gots numen rahtivit 
 mich." 
 
 Leonidas entered the tavern, made arrangements 
 for the night's stay, and found his way to the suf 
 fering man's room, where he was received with joy 
 so intense that for the moment Ezra forgot his pain.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 CONCERNING JACK MOBALY 
 
 BY three in the morning, after the killing of the 
 bear, the market folk had departed from the vil 
 lage. The place was left perfectly quiet, except as 
 the residents of Deep Creek gathered around the 
 front of Audierne Tavern to view the dead bear, 
 whose body still remained where it had fallen. One 
 after another walked to the place, to linger only a 
 moment, shake his head and walk away with some 
 comment upon the ruffian in the red shirt who 
 caused the trouble between the bear and his master. 
 
 Theories concerning the man were abundant. 
 One person claimed to have knowledge of him, and 
 to have recognized him as he struck the bear with 
 the whip. Three young men of the village were 
 discussing his identity quietly near the tavern. 
 
 "Joe, do you mean to say that you have seen the 
 fellow in the red shirt before?" asked Will Cherry, 
 as they bent their heads closer together lest some one 
 might overhear. 
 
 "Unless I am very much mistaken, I have seen 
 that man before; and while I would not care to 
 swear to it, there is little doubt in my mind that I 
 have seen him before yesterday," replied Joe Garry, 
 with a degree of assurance in his manner that in 
 spired confidence.
 
 72 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "But where in the world did you ever see him ?" 
 questioned Jim Culpepper. "He is a perfect stran 
 ger about the Creek, and no one seems to know any 
 thing about him." 
 
 "In the courthouse in Portsmouth," answered 
 Joe Garry, promptly, and in spite of himself raising 
 his voice. 
 
 "Not so loud, Joe," said the other two young men, 
 at once. 
 
 "Let us get to a quieter place," suggested Will 
 Cherry. 
 
 The three moved behind the northwest corner of 
 the house. When they had seated themselves upon 
 a cypress log Jim Culpepper touched Garry upon 
 the arm and said in a commanding tone, "Blaze 
 away, Joe; we won't be interrupted here." 
 
 "Well, as I was saying," said Garry, "I saw that 
 man in the courthouse in Portsmouth about one 
 year ago, as near as I can come at it. He was being 
 tried for burning a house down, and the case was so 
 clear against him that he was sentenced for ten 
 years at hard labor in the Richmond penitentiary. 
 There were three of them implicated in the crime. 
 It was said at the time that one of them furnished 
 the light wood, another the matches, and the third 
 set fire to the house. They caught the man who 
 furnished the matches, and he turned state's evi 
 dence, which caused the arrest of the other two. 
 The scamp who told on the others was released for 
 his services as a witness for the state, and " 
 
 "What a low trick that was!" interrupted Cul 
 pepper.
 
 CONCERNING JACK MOBALY 73 
 
 "Well, they pardoned the man they first caught," 
 continued Garry, "for telling on the other two. Then 
 they were tried, and the strangest thing occurred. 
 That is, while they were equally guilty, they failed 
 to convict one, but sentenced the other man to serve 
 ten years. The people said the jury was influenced 
 because the man's father had money and stood 
 well among the bontons of the town. You see, the 
 other man had no money, of course, had no friends, 
 and the court gave him a heavy sentence. I do not 
 think they were too hard on him, but they ought to 
 have served them all alike." 
 
 "But, how is this," asked Cherry "you said they 
 convicted the red shirt fellow, and sent him up for 
 ten years, only a year ago. This don't hold to 
 gether, does it, Joe?" 
 
 "Well, wait, can't you?" demanded Garry. "They 
 put him into jail in town for a few days, until the 
 sheriff could take him to Richmond; during that 
 time he broke jail, and the authorities claim they 
 have not been able to locate him since." 
 
 This greatly interested the two listeners, and one 
 of them arose from the cypress log and walked a 
 few steps away, turning quickly, hurried back, and 
 asked with great earnestness : "Joe Garry, do you 
 really think that fellow is Jack Mobaly? Your 
 story seems to tally with the facts of the story of 
 the fire in town when they arrested Jonas Pearson, 
 Hiram Hicks and Jack Mobaly." 
 
 "Boys, unless I'm very much mistaken, the man 
 in the red shirt was Jack Mobaly. You know it has 
 been reported for quite a while that a strange man
 
 74 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 has been seen about the Creek, and nobody seems 
 to know who he is. Also, a stranger has often been 
 seen going to old Gabriel Arnold's at Briarcrest, 
 always at night, and no one has been able to tell 
 just who he is. Now I'm inclined to think that the 
 two are the same person, and by name Jack Mob- 
 aly." 
 
 "You surely don't think he has lived in the 
 swamp ever since he broke jail, do you, Joe?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Joe, emphatically. "He never 
 went to Texas, as was reported. He's been living 
 in Dismal Swamp, just as hundreds of other crimi 
 nals are doing. Why, the swamp is the best hiding- 
 place in the world, and if a refugee from justice 
 once gets to Culpepper Island, it is no use for the 
 authorities to look for him. Many of the criminals 
 never come out of the swamp. They have means 
 of communication not known to many people in the 
 outside world. But Jack Mobaly is more daring 
 than many of them. After he had been there long 
 enough to grow long whiskers and hair, and change 
 his appearance, he grew bold enough to take risks." 
 
 "But, Joe, couldn't this fellow in the red shirt 
 be one of the traders ?" 
 
 "Why, no," replied Garry, with a note of impa 
 tience in his voice. "He fell in with the market peo 
 ple a short distance up the road, and came here 
 with them to throw the officers off the trail. Who 
 ever heard of a Carolina trader having on a red 
 flannel shirt? He isn't half sharp, or he would get 
 a suit of fustian, if he wanted to pass as a trader." 
 
 "By the way, why do you suppose Mobaly goes
 
 CONCERNING JACK MOBALY 75 
 
 secretly to Briarcrest to see old Arnold ?" asked Will 
 Cherry, who had been listening more than engaging 
 in the conversation. 
 
 "I don't know, of course," replied Garry, "but 
 I've an opinion about that, too. Before Mobaly got 
 into that fire trouble he was at Briarcrest a great 
 deal, and took part in the chicken fights there, and 
 always bet on Club Foot in the races. In fact, he 
 and Arnold had been intimate for some time. The 
 night he broke jail he went first to Briarcrest, on 
 his way out to the swamp. They are of the same 
 stripe, I tell you. I don't suppose old Gabriel ever 
 burned anybody's house, as Mobaly did, but if the 
 truth were known I should not be much surprised 
 if he has done pretty nearly as bad or maybe 
 worse." 
 
 "You don't mean that Arnold is a criminal !" ex 
 claimed one of the young men in surprise. 
 
 "I don't know, but people say he has been acting 
 mighty queer lately. Besides, he has an old negro 
 down there at Briarcrest who is boss of the whole 
 place and has Gabriel Arnold under his thumb as 
 well. You know there is something wrong when an 
 old slave can have such an influence over his mas 
 ter ; though I do not say he has ever committed any 
 crime, I " 
 
 "Hush! Listen! Boys, what's that?" broke in 
 Culpepper, rising to go. "Let's leave here. Who 
 ever closed that window may have overheard us." 
 
 Joe Garry had but stated the truth concerning 
 Mobaly. Within a few days after his sentence was 
 pronounced, with several other convicts, he had es-
 
 76 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 caped from jail. Mobaly reached Dismal Swamp 
 and made good his escape; and there he had lived, 
 going in and out of the swamp at great risk but 
 all the while escaping discovery. 
 
 For many years the "runaway" blacks and the 
 criminal whites had made Dismal Swamp a hiding- 
 place the one class from their merciless masters, 
 the other from the iron grip of the law. When once 
 in the swamp they felt in a measure secure. 
 While fleeing, they were often trailed by the keen 
 Southern bloodhounds, and sometimes torn to death 
 before relief could reach them. But it was seldom 
 that the absconding slaves were captured after hav 
 ing made their way into the jungle. The whites, 
 too, were captured only when they ventured again 
 into the outside world. 
 
 The trade in cypress and juniper shingles fur 
 nished occupation to those who were voluntary 
 prisoners in the swamp, and through it hundreds 
 of whites and blacks alike sustained life. Whole 
 families were reared who had never seen any phase 
 of life except that which prevailed in their swamp- 
 prison. 
 
 The means of communication with the outside 
 world were as unique and carefully arranged as 
 was the method of transportation on the famous 
 "underground railroad" by which thousands of 
 slaves made their escape into the Northern States 
 and, after the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, 
 into Canada. 
 
 A shingle "contractor" was generally the link of 
 communication between the outer world and the
 
 CONCERNING JACK MOBALY 77 
 
 world of the great swamp. The larger number of 
 the refugees congregated in camps, but others, for 
 secret reasons, preferred to live isolated. All felled 
 trees and converted them into "split" shingles, 
 which were delivered to the "contractor," he pay 
 ing for their labor, and converting their earnings 
 into provisions, clothing and such other things as 
 were required to make this life endurable. 
 
 Many of the swamp "contractors" were them 
 selves slaves, working out their freedom. They, 
 therefore, had sympathy with the "runaways," and 
 would rather die than betray them, even had such 
 treachery been worth the risk of life it entailed. In 
 many cases the dwellers in the swamp were never 
 across its borders after their first entrance to its 
 friendly recesses, and to live they were dependent 
 upon the "contractor." But the dependence was 
 mutual, as his business depended upon them, and 
 thus their necessity for protection and secrecy was 
 his advantage also. 
 
 Into this kind of life Jack Mobaly had gone. It 
 was really exchanging one prison for another, but, 
 still to be able to breathe outside of four walls, and 
 have comparative freedom was far preferable to 
 the dank cell in the Portsmouth jail or hard labor 
 in the Richmond penitentiary. For a time he was 
 content to breathe the deadly miasma rising from 
 the perpetual dampness of the swamp, and see the 
 Jack-o'-lantern play hither and thither in the dense 
 forest surrounding his cabin. He labored at shin 
 gle splitting and shingle shaving, and sat astride of 
 his wood-horse with iron teeth and used a drawing
 
 78 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 knife until great calloused patches arose upon the 
 palms of his hands and joints of his fingers. The 
 coarse fare and the red water of Dismal Swamp 
 contented him and he lived in the crudest kind of 
 cabin, in which he could lie upon his shuck mattress 
 and count the stars above the great cypress and 
 juniper trees through the apertures in the roof. 
 
 Civilization and all its conveniences of living 
 were for a time almost forgotten, in the stress of 
 the wild new life. At length the stillness of this 
 isolation became an annoyance to him. He tired 
 of hearing only the growl of the bear, the bark of 
 the wolf, the chatter of the squirrel, the sissing of 
 the water moccasin and the peculiar tremor of the 
 rattlesnake. Rarely any other sounds broke the 
 silence save those from his own implements of toil, 
 and that which came from his own footfall, and 
 even these startled him at times. 
 
 Finally, seeing for many months no one but fugi 
 tive slaves and men of his own type, Jack Mob- 
 aly found swamp life becoming unendurable. He 
 hungered for a sight of the outside world. He had 
 lost count of time, for, unlike Alexander Selkirk, 
 he had failed to keep tally, and now all days were 
 alike to him. 
 
 In early autumn, after a morning spent in search 
 of a bear, Jack Mobaly stood under a juniper tree 
 near the corner of his cabin, with bowed head and 
 serious countenance, looking into the red swamp 
 water. He was living his life over in thought. The 
 sun peeped through the tops of the trees and the 
 wild grape-vine overhanging the little pond, and he
 
 CONCERNING JACK MOBALY 79 
 
 saw his image reflected in the surface of the water. 
 As he gazed upon the picture, and saw the hair, 
 which dropped upon his shoulders, curling at the 
 end, and his long, black whiskers, which caused him 
 to look more like a bear than a man, he realized 
 for the first time that his appearance had changed 
 entirely in the nine months since his escape from 
 jail. 
 
 "Who would know Jack Mobaly now?" he asked 
 himself, with a note of exultation in his voice. 
 
 He put his musket inside the cabin, took his 
 large leather whip, pulled the door shut, and was 
 soon carefully treading his secret path toward Deep 
 Creek. As he emerged upon firmer ground his 
 eagerness became so great that he crashed through 
 the forest at a swift pace. He was hungry for real 
 life in a genuine world.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 DR. DEMSTER 
 
 As soon as Leonidas arrived at Deep Creek he 
 made an appointment with Dr. Demster for an in 
 terview at one o'clock the following afternoon. 
 Promptly at that hour he presented himself at the 
 office, and was asked to await the doctor's return. 
 Leonidas found much to interest him in retrospect 
 and surroundings, and an hour elapsed before the 
 doctor appeared. 
 
 Dr. Demster was known to be rich. The lum 
 ber and shingle industry had been very remunera 
 tive, and he was deep in this business when the 
 profits were largest. Now that the nation was 
 plunged into a civil war, and the Government was 
 paying fabulous prices in lumber contracts, the pro 
 ceeds were out of proportion to the amount of in 
 vestment. He practiced his profession because of 
 his fondness for it, and for the relief he might af 
 ford the suffering within his reach, but not for the 
 income it furnished. 
 
 There were no indications of wealth in the life 
 of this man, but the people knew of the extent of 
 his large and paying business. They were aware 
 that he owned mills to convert the Dismal Swamp 
 trees into lumber, and that he had hundreds of 
 men, white and black, working early and late in
 
 DR. DEMSTER
 
 DR. DEMSTER 81 
 
 the manufacture of shingles ; and that his own ves 
 sels transported these products to the markets of 
 the world. But where his great income was depos 
 ited no one could tell. He did not use it on his 
 home, for this had long since become shabby and 
 dilapidated. To judge from appearances, he would 
 have been rated as one of the poorest, rather than 
 the richest man in the Dismal Swamp region of 
 Virginia. 
 
 He was known to have no confidence in the 
 banks of his day, and as he did not deposit his 
 money in them it gave rise to many speculations as 
 to what disposition he made of it. Some said he 
 hid it away in his old house, and that he allowed 
 his home to run down in appearance to discredit 
 this fact, and others declared that he buried it in 
 the woods, as rich men were known to do in Tide 
 water before the days of the banks. 
 
 His appearance was that of a man who was dis 
 satisfied and unhappy in life. He never cultivated 
 the acquaintance of the village folk, and on more 
 than one occasion had indicated his desire to be let 
 alone. When compelled to meet the neighbors he 
 passed but few words, and soon dispatched his busi 
 ness. In his professional calls he diagnosed the 
 case, gave brief direction and departed as soon as 
 possible. His peculiarities led the people to avoid 
 him, except when there was sickness in the commu 
 nity, when he was speedily sought. Everybody had 
 confidence in his skill and trusted his judgment; 
 but the village folk all agreed that Dr. Demster 
 was a queer old man.
 
 82 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 In the evening, about the hour of sunset, he often 
 strolled through the thicket behind his house and 
 wandered down by the creek which ran lazily by 
 the village, or sat beneath the weeping willow which 
 dipped the tips of its branches in the sluggish 
 stream. As he walked, with his shoulders drooped, 
 his head bowed, with his chin resting on his breast, 
 his long, white hair and beard mingling at the sides 
 of his face, and his arms crossed behind him, the 
 people watched and wondered. And as he sat un 
 der the willow an appropriate place for one so 
 sad now and then, slowly tossing chips of bark 
 into the water, and watching them drift away with 
 the tide, they shook their heads in surmise. 
 
 Dr. Demster's house stood at the intersection of 
 the two streets, and was the most imposing struct 
 ure in the village. It was by no means a plain 
 building, though built in this obscure town, and was 
 covered with weatherboards every strip of which 
 was beaded, and there were moldings of exquisite 
 design. 
 
 The office was not tidy in appearance. The heavy 
 moldings at the corners, where the wall and ceil 
 ing came together, had grown gray with age, as 
 they had not been painted or cleaned in many years. 
 The chairs were of colonial style, but as much soiled 
 with dirt and grease as the other furniture. The 
 upholstering had long since been torn away, and 
 rough cypress boards had been nailed in the bot 
 toms, so they might still be put to the use for which 
 they were intended. An old sofa stood diagonally 
 across the southeast corner of the room, and its
 
 DR. DEMSTER 83 
 
 sharp ends had been jammed against the wall so 
 often that not only the plastering had been dis 
 lodged, but the laths were broken, and stuck out 
 in splinters in every direction, reminding one of a 
 retreating porcupine. Before the sofa stood a tall 
 clock of peculiar design, which told not only the 
 hour, but the day of the week and month, and reg 
 istered the different phases of the moon, and indi 
 cated flow of the tides. A rickety table supported 
 a few medical books and papers. 
 
 In one corner stood a box made of rough white- 
 oak lumber, and fastened in it with crude wire 
 staples, and standing in an erect position, were the 
 bones of a tall man. The skeleton was in a perfect 
 state of preservation. The large, white teeth 
 grinned hideously, and some patches of kinky black 
 hair still adhered to the skull. Pasted on the 
 frontal bone was a slip of paper on which the fol 
 lowing was plainly written : 
 
 "These are the bones of the slave, Pompey, who 
 once belonged to Gabriel Arnold. The negro ran 
 away from Briarcrest in hopes of escaping to the 
 swamp. He was pursued by Arnold's bloodhounds, 
 overtaken and killed by the dogs near Culpepper 
 Island. Here his body lay until the flesh had 
 been consumed by birds of prey. Oct. 15, 1860, I 
 found the skeleton and identified it as the remains 
 of Pompey. DEMSTER." 
 
 After gazing about the office Leonidas crossed 
 the room and again stood in front of Pompey's 
 bones to study them more closely. At the skele 
 ton's feet he perceived a small chest with cover
 
 84 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 raised, disclosing a quantity of gold coins of several 
 denominations. He saw that the doctor had re 
 moved the tin chest and money from behind a se 
 cret door in the back of the large box, and had in 
 advertently left the door open and the chest at the 
 skeleton's feet, so that the secret recess as well as 
 the gold was exposed to view. 
 
 Leonidas instinctively put his hand in his trouser's 
 pocket and found only the French medal. He 
 knew he had no money, as he had given the last 
 for his night's lodging at the tavern. He thought 
 of the future, and wondered how he could meet the 
 demands to be made upon him. The way ahead 
 was dark, and there seemed no reason why Dr. 
 Demster should favor him in any way. 
 
 "What shall I do?" he whispered, half aloud, "I 
 am without means. Demands will be made upon 
 me, and I have no work. What shall I do? Shall 
 I ta ? No I can't. I have given up much 
 for conscience's sake, but I shall at least retain my 
 honor. What folly not to trust! I have nothing 
 of this world, but I'll be true, and I'll tell the doc 
 tor when he comes." 
 
 Leonidas walked resolutely away from the gold 
 and again sat at the table to await the doctor. He 
 had examined the box of instruments, and recog 
 nized some of them as those used at the tavern in 
 dressing Ezra's wound. He was reading a work 
 on anatomy when the doctor pushed aside a faded 
 curtain, that separated the office from the kitchen, 
 and put his hand on the young man's shoulder to 
 attract his attention.
 
 DR. DEMSTER 85 
 
 "I see you are here before me," said he, taking 
 the chair by Leonidas. "How long have you 
 waited ?" 
 
 "About an hour," answered Leonidas, and with 
 out delay called the doctor's attention to the gold 
 in the little tin chest. 
 
 "Well, my boy, you are honest, to say the least 
 of it." 
 
 "I hope always to be honest," said Leonidas, 
 simply. 
 
 Nothing more was said about the gold, but it 
 was evident that the incident had made a favorable 
 impression on the old doctor's mind. 
 
 "You have been here an hour," said the doctor, 
 "but you seem interested." 
 
 "Yes, you have many things of interest," an 
 swered Leonidas. "The time spent has been 
 greatly entertaining." 
 
 "What attracted you most?" questioned the doc 
 tor, suspecting what the young man would answer. 
 
 "By all odds, that," Leonidas quickly explained, 
 pointing to the skeleton. 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" shouted the doctor. "I should 
 like to know what there is of so much interest in a 
 negro's bones?" 
 
 "It is not so much that they are the bones of a 
 negro, as that they are the bones of a certain ne 
 gro, and that he came to his death in a particular 
 way, that interests me," said Leonidas. "While I 
 have lived within a few miles of this place all my 
 life, and have heard a great deal about the 'runa 
 ways' in Dismal Swamp, and how they are often
 
 86 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 pursued by the bloodhounds and devoured before 
 help can reach them, I have never before realized 
 the fact so vividly." 
 
 "Yes, he was one of Gabriel Arnold's negroes, 
 and the case is just as you see on the label," ex 
 plained the doctor. "Arnold was so cruel to his 
 slaves, that now and then one of them would seize 
 a chance to run away. Pompey was the last to at 
 tempt it, and made for the swamp, but the dogs 
 overtook him near Culpepper Island, and that was 
 the end of him. I secured his bones, thinking they 
 might be of interest to people who do not know so 
 much about how negroes are run down as those 
 who live near Dismal Swamp." 
 
 "You can't imagine how interesting that is to 
 me. This indicates that Mr. Arnold is not very 
 humane, if he treats his slaves so cruelly that they 
 watch for a chance to escape. What sort of man is 
 Mr. Arnold, Doctor?" asked Leonidas, abruptly, 
 hoping the question would not make an unfavorable 
 impression on the doctor, though it seemed a trifle 
 impertinent. 
 
 "Very humane! I should say not," the doctor 
 answered emphatically, not noting any impropriety 
 in the question. "Nobody knows just what's the 
 matter with him, but there's something wrong, and 
 he does not wish to have dealings with many peo 
 ple lately. Yes, a great change has come over Ar 
 nold, and nobody can account for it with any de 
 gree of certainty." 
 
 "You don't think Mr. Arnold has done some 
 thing he wishes to hide, do you, Doctor?" asked
 
 DR. DEMSTER 87 
 
 Leonidas. "I suppose he doesn't care particularly 
 about the killing of Pompey by the dogs, for, as 
 you say, that is a common occurrence. Do you 
 think there is something else on his mind?" 
 
 "I am afraid there is," was the doctor's deliber 
 ate reply. "From what I hear, and from what I 
 have observed, it seems to me that Gabriel Arnold 
 is burdened with some great secret. Of course, I 
 do not know, and would not like to say positively, 
 but that is my belief; and I fear, whatever it is, 
 it is affecting him, and will do so as long as he 
 lives. I think that he has done something he would 
 be glad to undo." 
 
 Leonidas instantly recalled what he had heard 
 from other sources. Uncle Zeke certainly had in 
 formation concerning Gabriel Arnold, which he 
 was not willing to communicate; and the young 
 man under the tavern window had said something 
 about him that was far-reaching in its meaning; 
 and now here Dr. Demster had affirmed that old 
 Arnold was burdened with some great secret which 
 he dared not tell. 
 
 "What's the matter, young man? Are you lis 
 tening?" demanded the doctor. 
 
 "I assure you I am listening, Doctor; and I am 
 deeply interested as well," protested Leonidas. "I 
 should be only too glad to hear all about it. Yes, 
 I am more than interested." 
 
 "O, I don't know anything, but it appears to 
 me that Gabriel Arnold is carrying a burden he 
 would like for some one else to have," said the 
 doctor, as he turned to walk back to the chair, and
 
 88 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 sat down with his arms thrown carelessly across 
 the table. 
 
 "Do you think Mr. Arnold has committed some 
 great crime?" persisted Leonidas. 
 
 "It would seem so," said the doctor, "but, of 
 course, no one can tell. Persons are very strange 
 ly and greatly affected, sometimes from very 
 trifling causes. Slight things have been known to 
 prey upon the mind and the person become a mono 
 maniac, and, from this state of insanity, to go 
 stark mad. But what have you to do with Ga 
 briel Arnold ? You came to consult me profession 
 ally. What is your trouble? Let me see: Your 
 pulse is thumping away as a well man's should. 
 Besides, your complexion is first class, and your 
 eye is as clear as the sun. There is nothing the 
 matter with you, as far as I can see. Why did 
 you come to consult me?" 
 
 "The fact is, Doctor, I came to consult you about 
 an entirely different matter," admitted Leonidas. 
 "I need a friend to advise, and, if possible, help 
 me. I stand alone at present. There has arisen 
 an emergency in my life, and I'm at the forks of 
 the road, so to speak, where it is very easy to go 
 in the wrong direction. I've come to you, believ 
 ing that you are the friend who will help me with 
 advice." 
 
 "Well, my boy,' answered the doctor, heartily, 
 "you know advice is cheap, but before I can ad 
 vise, you must tell what the trouble is. You look 
 to be about twenty, and that is the critical period 
 in the life of every young man, but what is the
 
 DR. DEMSTER 89 
 
 special experience through which you are passing 
 now? Speak freely." 
 
 The old doctor ran his fingers through his long 
 white hair, placed his elbow upon the table, and 
 resting his head in his hand, gazed at his young 
 companion who had so favorably impressed him, 
 eager to hear what he had to say.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 LEONIDAS MAKES A FRIEND 
 
 LEONIDAS related his story of the variance be 
 tween his father and himself, and how his father 
 had commanded him to change his opinions, or 
 leave home. 
 
 "Doctor, the conviction is growing within me 
 that to make the distinction between people that 
 my father insists upon is wicked. Certain am I, 
 that it is not in harmony with the Sermon on the 
 Mount. To entertain just opinions on the rights of 
 men, and to treat all properly, becomes a matter 
 of serious moment with me, for I do not think a 
 person can live the Christ-life without it." 
 
 "Then it is your religion?" inquired the doctor, 
 
 "My religion insists upon it," replied Leonidas, 
 "and I fully believe when this unchristian distinc 
 tion is obliterated, and people are estimated at their 
 real worth, the world will be a great deal happier 
 than it is at present. I believe, further, that unless 
 the people conform more nearly to the teaching of 
 Christ the chasm between the classes will widen, 
 and we may look for perilous times in the future. 
 I know the present war is absorbing the attention 
 of the nation, and little or no thought is given to 
 the social problem, but the war will soon end, and 
 the social problem will not be solved, and the rich 
 will continue to despise the poor."
 
 LEONIDAS MAKES A FRIEND 91 
 
 "What then?" asked the doctor, in a non-com 
 mittal tone. 
 
 "I fear they will oppress them, too," continued 
 Leonidas, "until the poor will become exasperated 
 and resent the injustice. No one can predict where 
 the trouble will end." 
 
 "So your sympathies go with the poor in the 
 struggle of life," said the doctor, "and you sym 
 pathize with them because it is religious to do so. 
 Is this it?" 
 
 "No," said Leonidas, "not because it is religious 
 to do so, but because it is right. It is, of course, 
 a point of religion, and is set forth in the Scrip 
 tures, and certainly was exemplified in the life of 
 Jesus Christ." 
 
 "Have you considered what you sacrifice in leav 
 ing home?" asked the doctor. "You know your 
 father is rich." 
 
 "Yes, I know it all, Doctor. I know exactly 
 what it means." 
 
 "And still you left?" exclaimed the doctor, 
 "What compensation have you for leaving?" 
 
 "A good conscience," replied Leonidas, with 
 emphasis. "This, I think, is more to be desired 
 than my father's fortune. I cannot have both. 
 There was principle involved. To surrender my 
 opinions simply for a money consideration would 
 be the sacrifice of my self-respect, and conscience, 
 too." 
 
 Dr. Demster had become more and more inter 
 ested as the conversation proceeded. The young 
 man had attracted him to a degree which he had
 
 92 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 not felt toward anyone for years. He arose from 
 his chair, walked slowly across the floor several 
 times, his head bowed, and hands behind him, med 
 itating upon what had been disclosed in the con 
 versation. He paused for a moment in the corner 
 of the room facing the skeleton, then, turning, he 
 walked quickly to where Leonidas was sitting. 
 Struck by a new idea, that perchance there was yet 
 some fact that the young man had concealed, or 
 at least had not revealed, he asked in a suggestive 
 tone of voice: 
 
 "Is that all? Is that the only reason why your 
 father has turned you out? Is there anything 
 connected with it that you have not told me? You 
 have been so candid about it, that I shall accept 
 your statement, if you say that is all." 
 
 "No," said Leonidas, without hesitation, "that 
 is not all. There is still another matter connected 
 with it, which was the other of the two reasons my 
 father assigned for his decision. It has been my 
 purpose all the while to tell you about this as well 
 as the other." 
 
 "But what is the other reason? It may be the 
 real cause, after all," said the doctor, as he took 
 his place quickly in the chair again. 
 
 "It concerns a young woman whose reputation 
 and" 
 
 "By the Eternal!" interrupted the doctor; "a 
 woman in the case. Well, well, well! Have you 
 been running after some questionable female, and 
 for this your father has driven you out?" 
 
 "No, Doctor; don't judge me too quickly, and
 
 LEONIDAS MAKES A FRIEND 93 
 
 I pray you do not have a suggestive thought about 
 the character of the woman whose name and in 
 terest are involved, for I assure you she is as inno 
 cent as an angel, and was more surprised when 
 she learned of her connection with the matter than 
 you seem to be now." 
 
 After telling the story of Isabel Proctor's connec 
 tion with his life, Leonidas continued: "Father 
 fears that I love her, and he is not willing, as he 
 expressed it, to have a poor servant girl enter his 
 home as a daughter-in-law." 
 
 "You say it was a poor, but good girl?" asked 
 the doctor, with interest and animation in every 
 tone. 
 
 "Yes, poor, but a perfect angel on earth," an 
 swered Leonidas, "as I have learned lately, though 
 I did not know so much about her when my father 
 found occasion to object to her." 
 
 "Who is she? May I ask? Though I suppose 
 this makes no difference, and is none of my busi 
 ness." 
 
 "I want you to know," responded Leonidas, 
 quickly, though he felt a trifle concerned, lest the 
 mention of Isabel's name might precipitate a ques 
 tion which he was not quite ready to answer. "Her 
 name is Isabel Proctor." 
 
 "Isabel Proctor, Isabel Proctor," muttered the 
 old physician, as if to recall some memory; "Isabel 
 Proctor why she's Gabriel Arnold's niece. Is that 
 the girl you mean?" 
 
 "Yes, Doctor," answered Leonidas, "it is Isa 
 bel Proctor, Mr. Arnold's niece, on whose account,
 
 94 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 partially, I'm away from home. When father saw 
 me talking with her, he assumed that I was becom 
 ing intimate with a poor girl, and forbade my ever 
 speaking to her again. I could see no reason for 
 this prohibition and I refused to comply with his 
 demand. So far as I've ever heard, Miss Proctor 
 is a young woman of good character, though she 
 is poor. Why should I avoid her simply because 
 the difference between us can be removed with 
 money? To my mind, good character is the all- 
 important thing, and this, I believe, Miss Proctor 
 possesses. If she were a person of questionable 
 character, I should avoid her as I would a viper; 
 or if there were a breath of suspicion concerning 
 her reputation, I should hesitate a long while be 
 fore permitting any more than a speaking ac 
 quaintance. I see no reason why there should be 
 an embargo placed upon any relation between Miss 
 Proctor and me, and, since I have come to know 
 her, I don't propose that there shall be." 
 
 "I suppose," said the doctor, after a short si 
 lence, "you intended to leave home rather than sur 
 render your principles, and the matter of your re 
 lation with the Proctor girl was of minor impor 
 tance. What would you have decided as between 
 the girl and your home and future fortune?" 
 
 "I should have decided just as I have done, for 
 I have no patience with the spirit of my father and 
 that of the remainder of the Darwood family. They 
 and some of the self-styled first families of Vir 
 ginia look with contempt upon poor people, as not 
 worthy of their notice, and would not, in any cir-
 
 LEONIDAS MAKES A FRIEND 95 
 
 cumstances, associate with those out of their class. 
 This, I consider, is not in keeping with the spirit 
 of Jesus of Nazareth. If there were any discrim 
 ination at all, it seemed to have been in favor of 
 the poor. I think there was no difference with the 
 Great Teacher, and I have no right to make any." 
 
 "And this is a part of your religion; is it?" asked 
 the doctor, again growing animated, and leaning 
 forward. 
 
 "Yes, and it appears to me to be the chief need 
 of the world," said Leonidas. 
 
 "My boy, is there nothing more than that in your 
 relation with the Proctor girl ?" 
 
 "Well, yes, Doctor," admitted Leonidas, "there 
 is now, but there was not when I left home. The 
 motives that I have mentioned are the only ones 
 that influenced me in my decision. When the 
 trouble occurred Isabel Proctor was no more to me 
 than any other young woman, and so my decision 
 was made in a general way, and if it had involved 
 any other person I should not have acted differ 
 ently." 
 
 "Is Isabel Proctor more to you than any other 
 girl now?" inquired the doctor. "You are quite 
 young yet, my boy." 
 
 "She is more than anyone else, Doctor." 
 
 "You are, then, in love," said the old physician. 
 
 "You may call it. what you like, but my fondness 
 for Isabel Proctor has in the last few days become 
 very great. Yes, Doctor; I'm in love, I suppose," 
 admitted the young man, blushing and moving 
 nervously under the scrutiny of penetrating eyes.
 
 96 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 The old physician paused for a moment, and ap 
 peared to be turning some thought over in his 
 mind, his neck craned, so that his head lay nearly 
 upon his shoulder, meanwhile tapping on the table 
 with the ends of his fingers. 
 
 "My boy," said the old doctor, suddenly aroused 
 from his thoughtful attitude, "all you have said 
 and done is just as it should be. To my mind, it 
 is beyond criticism; but does it not occur to you 
 that to allow yourself to think seriously of the 
 Proctor girl will necessitate your crossing the 
 path of Gabriel Arnold ? He is a very wicked man, 
 and the less you have to do with him the better. If 
 you determine to woo and win the girl, be careful 
 of her uncle, for there is no telling what desperate 
 thing he will do." 
 
 "Since the night of the big storm my suspicion 
 has been aroused," answered Leonidas. "He may 
 be wicked, and may wish to defeat my purpose, 
 but still I don't think he will succeed." 
 
 "What has aroused your suspicion? Has anyone 
 told you of some specific act committed by Ar 
 nold?" 
 
 "The old slave knows something about Mr. Ar 
 nold which he doesn't care to tell, and whenever 
 he even thinks about it he becomes greatly excited. 
 There certainly is some secret between them," ex 
 plained Leonidas. 
 
 "Is that all?" questioned the doctor, determined 
 to understand the matter fully. 
 
 "When I left Uncle Zeke he cautioned me about 
 going through the pine woods at Briarcrest, and
 
 LEONIDAS MAKES A FRIEND 97 
 
 made much of the branch, and a big pine tree. The 
 old man declares he has seen in the woods a ghost 
 which sits under the big pine tree holding its hand 
 to its head. I have reason to think it was under 
 that very tree that I found this," responded Le- 
 onidas, taking the French medal from his pocket 
 and handing it to the doctor.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 
 
 "NAPOLEON III!" exclaimed the doctor, his eyes 
 flashing as he looked at the profile of the Emperor 
 on the medal. "Legion of Honor, eh ! I'd be will 
 ing to pay a forfeit if I couldn't guess to whom it 
 belonged." 
 
 "There is an inscription on it in French, and you 
 may be able to translate more of it than I can, but 
 even the name on it aroused my curiosity when I 
 discovered it." 
 
 The doctor turned the medal over and read 
 aloud : 
 
 "Awarded to Comte de Bussy for gallant serv 
 ices at Magenta and Solferino in the year of grace 
 1859." 
 
 "Why it's no trouble for you to read it," re 
 marked Leonidas, "and I am glad I showed it to 
 you, as I have wondered about the significance of 
 the inscription." 
 
 "O, yes, I can read French," said the doctor, 
 smiling at the young man, "but I deserve no spe 
 cial credit for that. I, myself, am French by birth, 
 and, of course, everything from that country or 
 language interests me greatly, and " 
 
 "Are you French? You French!" exclaimed
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 99 
 
 Leonidas in surprise. "Strange I never heard that 
 before." 
 
 "That is my secret," said the doctor, after a mo 
 ment's pause, "and there are other facts about me 
 not known here, but I will tell you this now. My 
 father was implicated in the French Revolution, 
 and took a prominent part during the Reign of 
 Terror. At first he became a Revolutionist, and 
 was allied with Robespierre, Danton and Marat. 
 But these men went further in their wickedness 
 and slaughter than he dreamed they would, at the 
 outbreak of the Revolution, and he believed, for the 
 good of France, they, themselves, should go to the 
 guillotine. My father made an effort to retrace 
 his steps and undo what he had done. He pre 
 ferred the kings and the feudal system to the up 
 heaval produced by these three leaders of the Revo 
 lutionists. 
 
 "He used to entertain me, when I was a boy, 
 by telling me of his thrilling experiences during 
 those trying days. He told me that he furnished 
 the knife to Charlotte Cor day with which she as 
 sassinated Marat, and that he had something to do 
 with the plot that ended in Danton's humiliation, 
 and was present when he mounted the scaffold. 
 Once I asked him what he himself did, but this 
 was a part of his life he would never tell me. He 
 said he saw Robespierre in mortal terror when he 
 was led to the guillotine, and was standing near 
 when his head dropped into the basket. 
 
 "When this man was approaching the end my 
 father led in the cry, 'Down with the tyrant !' This
 
 ioo IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 practically ended the Reign of Terror, but still my 
 father felt insecure, and escaped to America under 
 the assumed name of Demster. By this name I 
 have always been known. My real name is De 
 Verrier. After quiet was partially restored father 
 returned to France, leaving my mother and me in 
 America. Mother died after a while, and left me 
 to battle with the world alone. When he returned 
 to France my father allied hemself with Napoelon 
 and was one of the foremost leaders of his select 
 men. He fought in many battles, and was side by 
 side with de Bussy at Friedland, Luxembourg and 
 Verdun. I mean, of course, the young Count's 
 father. 
 
 "This was while I was young, but you can see 
 why I am interested in everything French, and why 
 it is natural for me to read the language. Of course, 
 the sight of that medal awakens a thousand recol 
 lections of the exciting days of my childhood, but 
 it also stirs me greatly over what has occurred of 
 late. You see why anything with Count de Bussy's 
 name on it would interest me." 
 
 "Yes," answered Leonidas, "but what signifi 
 cance has the medal ?" 
 
 "It is a mark of distinction even to own such a 
 medal," continued the doctor. "This one, as the 
 inscription indicates, belongs to Count de Bussy, 
 and was presented to him for his heroic service for 
 the Emperor's cause in Italy. Magenta and Sol- 
 ferino tell the whole story. I am interested in de 
 Bussy, because of his father's relation to my father 
 in the great Napoleon's battles, but your finding
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 101 
 
 the medal in the pine woods at Briarcrest under 
 the big tree is of more interest still, and is forcing 
 my mind to an inevitable conclusion, much as I re 
 gret to entertain it. But what is this spot on the 
 ribbon?" 
 
 "What is it, Doctor? It attracted my attention 
 soon after I found it, and I have wondered ever 
 since what it is, and why it is there." 
 
 The old physician took the medal, detached the 
 ribbon, and placed it under a microscope. He 
 looked for a moment, then turned suddenly and 
 walked across the floor, exclaiming excitedly, 
 "W-e-e-e-11, by the Eternal Justice!" 
 
 "What is it?" Leonidas demanded, with in 
 creased interest. "What is it?" 
 
 "Iron rust, or the stain from the leaves of some 
 forest tree containing hemoglobine, or blood," said 
 the doctor, looking directly at Leonidas and 
 shaking his head ominously. 
 
 The old man seemed lost in thought, and at 
 length young Darwood, thinking he had occupied 
 too much time already, arose to leave. He thanked 
 the doctor most cordially for the generous expres 
 sion of confidence, but felt that the initiative offer 
 of help must come without his suggestion. He 
 stepped over to where the doctor had placed him 
 self near the great fireplace and took the old man's 
 hand in both of his own, saying: 
 
 "Doctor, I must leave now. I hope to see you 
 soon again. Will you be at the tavern to see Ezra 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, recovering his former in- 
 
 7
 
 102 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 terest, "but before you go I wish to tell you that I 
 like you. Yes, I like you, and henceforth I shall 
 be your friend. You have been so true to your 
 convictions, and so just in your treatment of others, 
 and so honest with my gold, that I like you as 
 I have not liked anyone for many long years. Will 
 you be my friend? I need a friend worse than 
 you know. There is an awful void in my life and 
 my heart aches, and has since Annie went away." 
 
 "Since Annie went away?" echoed Leonida<s, 
 mentally. He then decided that Annie must have 
 been some one who had figured largely in the old 
 man's early life, and hoped he might hear more of 
 the story. 
 
 "My heart aches, and has ever since my Annie 
 left, and I thought it would always ache," con 
 tinued the doctor, "but all at once you've come to 
 be my friend, and fill the place in my life. No, not 
 fill it, that can't ever be, but if you let me be your 
 friend, and are my friend, you will, in a measure, 
 fill a place in a wretched old man's life that has not 
 been filled for many a long and dreary day. Will 
 you take an old man, nearly in the grave, for your 
 friend? And will you be my friend? Will you 
 believe me, and trust me? I believe and trust you 
 already. This is strange talk for a rich old man 
 to a boy, but since Annie went I have yearned, yes, 
 almost died for someone to love and trust." 
 
 The doctor drew his hand from the young man's 
 grasp, and put it on his shoulder for an instant, and, 
 looking into his eyes, said, "Stay until I return." 
 
 He passed into the hall and up the stairs. His
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 103 
 
 house, save his own bedroom, was empty, and 
 Leonidas could hear his footsteps as he stalked 
 from one place to another. He entered his own 
 chamber, and went to the corner, near the head of 
 his bed, to a small closet built into the wall, almost 
 concealed from view. He looked around, turning 
 his eyes from one side to the other, and then 
 glanced under the bed. Satisfied that no one was 
 near, he placed a small brass key in the lock of a 
 little door, which suddenly flew open. He took 
 from the top shelf a mahogany box, and went 
 slowly down, placing it upon the table by which 
 Leonidas stood. 
 
 He took from the box a number of old, musty 
 papers, and handled them as if they were of no 
 special value, though they were deeds, deeds of 
 trust, and notes of various kinds, representing 
 many thousand dollars. He then seized a package 
 of letters that were of more interest, judging from 
 the manner in which he handled them, and laid 
 them upon the table, occasionally taking them up 
 in his hands, turning them over, looking at them 
 affectionately. Finally the doctor removed a small 
 thin package, which was carefully tied with silk 
 cord. Leonidas saw at once that this object, what 
 ever it might be, was invested with an interest that 
 nothing else in the box possessed. 
 
 As he began to untie the silk string the old man's 
 hands trembled, and he himself shook from head to 
 foot, as if stirred by some great emotion. He care 
 fully removed the covering and handed Leonidas 
 the sacred contents of the little package. It was a
 
 IO4 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 picture of a sweet, earnest young woman, with re 
 markably fine eyes, and was evidently painted by 
 the hand of some master artist, inclosed in a frame 
 of exquisite workmanship, the whole being not 
 more than four inches wide and six inches in 
 length. Across the lower right hand corner was 
 an inscription the namie "Annie Hewlett," and 
 nothing more. 
 
 "Doctor," said Leonidas, after gazing at the 
 picture, "this is a beautiful, spirituelle face. Is it 
 a likeness of some dear friend?" 
 
 "More than dear friend," said the doctor, and 
 his voice trembled. "This is what I wish to tell 
 you. Nobody here knows, but I want you to 
 know, because I love you, and can trust you. That's 
 my Annie. I loved her when I was a young man 
 like you. I looked like you then. My hair was 
 black, then, too. Everybody said I was handsome, 
 and they knew Annie was pretty and good. Annie 
 loved me, and one day, under a big willow tree 
 she took my hand in her beautiful white hands 
 and admitted it. Yes, that's my Annie, and she 
 wanted to be mine for good and all, but they 
 wouldn't let me have her. No, they wouldn't let 
 me have my Annie." 
 
 The old man broke into a flood of tears, then 
 in an uncontrollable fit of sobbing, he threw his 
 head upon his arms which lay folded upon the ta 
 ble, and between his sobs said : "That's my Annie, 
 and they wouldn't let me have her. They said I 
 was poor. They watched her and locked her in a 
 room."
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 105 
 
 "How cruel!" Leonidas exclaimed. 
 
 The old man forgot his grief for a moment and 
 said : "She dropped me a note out of the window." 
 He drew a slip of paper, yellow with age, from the 
 package of letters, and passed it to Leonidas, who 
 read: 
 
 "MY DEAR EUSTACE: I love only you, and will 
 love you forever. Be patient. I will be yours some 
 day. Your loving 
 
 ANNIE/' 
 
 "Yes, she meant to be mine, and she is mine ; but 
 when she couldn't see me she turned pale, and sick 
 ened and died. This is why I have always lived 
 alone. I have had no one to love since Annie went 
 away," continued the old man, as his voice trem 
 bled with emotion. 
 
 "Your life must have been almost unbearable," 
 said Leonidas, looking with pity upon the old phy 
 sician, as the great tears ran down his haggard 
 face to mingle with his long, white beard, think 
 ing all the while of the possible impediments that 
 might be placed between him and Isabel, and won 
 dering if he, too, would have a like sad experience. 
 
 The doctor arose from where he was sitting, 
 rubbing his hands together, and walked across the 
 floor, all the while saying in a subdued voice : "My 
 Annie, my Annie. They locked her up. They 
 killed her."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED 
 
 ISABEL sat at the front window of Gabriel Ar 
 nold's room, looking out upon the wreckage of the 
 previous night's storm, and meditating upon the 
 disclosures made in Uncle Zeke's cabin. What an 
 experience! And what revelations had been made! 
 Leonidas had revealed his love for her. He cer 
 tainly had expressed himself in most emphatic 
 language; but had she admitted her love for him? 
 She had made a great effort not to do so, but feared 
 he had read her thoughts and observed her emo 
 tion as she had looked up into his anxious face. 
 
 Gabriel Arnold, in haste, had thrown himself 
 on the bed without removing even his topcoat. He 
 was sleeping, but his sleep was broken. He tossed 
 from side to side, talking at times of things that 
 troubled him, and his mutterings broke into Isa 
 bel's reverie. She wondered what he was saying 
 and what it all portended, as she arose and went to 
 his bedside. 
 
 As she was about to speak to him she observed 
 that he was still sleeping, though now and again 
 he muttered disconnected phrases, and at times 
 groaned, as though suffering. This distress seemed 
 not to be physical pain, but that which was far 
 worse mental anguish. She stood by his side and
 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED 107 
 
 watched the wild expression of his countenance. 
 He arose in bed and lifted both hands as if in the 
 act of striking some one standing near by, grinding 
 his teeth tightly as he did so. Then he brought 
 his hands down quickly, as if wielding a bludgeon 
 in the act of striking a heavy blow, saying fiercely : 
 
 "There, you foreign devil, take that! You in 
 fernal Frenchman!" 
 
 Isabel trembled in alarm, and could scarcely re 
 sist the impulse to rush to awaken him out of what 
 she thought must be a horrible dream. She did 
 not, however, but paused for what might follow. 
 
 Gabriel Arnold was now sitting in an upright 
 position, with the bed covers twisted in every con 
 ceivable shape. He quickly lifted his hands and 
 clasped his head tightly, then, turning, threw him 
 self violently upon the pillow, tossing from side to 
 side, groaning horribly. In his distress he cried 
 aloud: "I've done it. I've done it. What shall 
 I do ! O, what shall I do !" Then, in a pitiful and 
 pleading tone, he addressed his old slave: "Zeke, 
 O, Zeke, don't tell. Don't tell it. I've done it, 
 Zeke." 
 
 After a brief silence, save as his breath came 
 thick and heavy, he screamed: "They'll get me! 
 Save me. There they come." Then, before Isabel 
 could prevent him, he leaped from his bed, and 
 rushed madly across the room toward the door, 
 with his head turned backward, as though to es 
 cape some one in pursuit. 
 
 "Uncle, uncle!" said Isabel, in a commanding 
 voice, as she went quickly to where he had pressed
 
 io8 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 himself against the door in an attempt to open it 
 and rush into the hall. "Uncle, what can the matter 
 be? No one is after you. There is no one in the 
 room but me. You have had a disagreeable dream. 
 Come now, get back to bed, and be calm. Nobody 
 will hurt you." 
 
 Isabel put her arm about her uncle's shoulders, 
 as he stood leaning over tugging at the door knob. 
 The touch of her arm was the climax of Arnold's 
 fear ; for at the contact he screamed in great fright : 
 "Ugh, ugh, ugh! They've got me. They've got 
 me. I'm caught at last. Zeke! Zeke! I told you 
 not to tell." 
 
 "Who's got you, Uncle Gabriel?" asked Isabel 
 in a steady, soothing tone. "It is I. Don't you 
 know me? Is it Isabel your niece. No one else 
 is here." 
 
 "Isabel, Isabel, is it really you, my niece?" de 
 manded Arnold, as he turned from the door, and 
 grabbed her by the arms and shook her violently. 
 "Is it you, Isabel? Where are they? Will they 
 come again?" 
 
 "Whom do you mean, uncle?" asked Isabel, as 
 she observed that he was fast regaining his com 
 posure. "There is no one in the room but me; nor 
 has there been. Nobody is after you. What is the 
 matter? You have had a horrible dream." 
 
 "Y-e-e-e-s, it was a bad dream a very bad 
 dream." 
 
 Arnold realized with embarrassment that he had 
 dreamed, and in the dream had talked about the 
 matter that had so disturbed his sleep; and won-
 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED 109 
 
 dered if he had said anything that was calculated 
 to excite suspicion. 
 
 "What did you dream, Uncle Gabriel, that so 
 frightened you?" 
 
 "It was a bad dream a very bad dream," he 
 repeated, feeling the horror. "Did you say they 
 were not after me? Are you sure they were not 
 here?" 
 
 "No one was here but me," replied Isabel, real 
 izing that her uncle's mind was wandering, "and 
 no one has been in the room since morning." 
 
 "Are you sure no one was after me, Isabel?" 
 
 "No, Uncle Gabriel, no one was after you; and 
 no one has been after you. Who would wish to 
 molest you, and for what reason would they come? 
 Come, now, don't be alarmed about this again." 
 
 Though Isabel did her best to console him by 
 making little of his dream, and though she knew 
 dreams might arise from various causes and have 
 no real significance, she could not dismiss the con 
 viction that this disturbing experience had behind 
 it something more than a disordered brain. She 
 feared there had been some act committed that 
 formed the reason for his peculiarities when awake, 
 and restlessness when asleep. What it was she did 
 not dare imagine. 
 
 Isabel led her uncle back to bed, but there seemed 
 to be no rest for him. He sat up and looked around 
 him in what seemed a dazed condition. His eyes 
 were red and wild, and there was a nervous tremor 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Lock the door and keep them out," he com-
 
 no IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 manded. "Don't you hear them? They are out 
 there now. They are trying to come in. They'll 
 take me. O, lock the door. Quick hurry keep 
 them out!" 
 
 To gratify her uncle, who she feared was fast 
 becoming deranged, Isabel locked the door, and to 
 secure it doubly she placed across it a heavy hick 
 ory bar, which had been used as a fastening since 
 the boyhood of her uncle. Seeing the door locked 
 and barred, he felt more composed, and dropped 
 back on the pillow, sinking into a half-stupid, half- 
 reflective mood now disinclined to speak, except 
 occasionally to break the silence by insisting that 
 some one was coming. 
 
 After reassuring her uncle that no one would mo 
 lest him, Isabel resumed her place at the window. 
 Her brain was fairly awhirl with reflections. These 
 were now not entirely of Leonidas, and the reve 
 lations in Uncle Zeke's cabin, but, in part, of her 
 uncle, and the meaning of the strange talk during 
 his sleep, and his even stranger conduct after 
 awaking. 
 
 The thought of Leonidas was comforting to Isa 
 bel, for since going to Briarcrest her life had not 
 been one of much joy. Her Uncle Gabriel and 
 Aunt Betty had been so unkind that the poor girl's 
 life was exceedingly unhappy. But since she had 
 met Leonidas at the myrtle thicket, and more 
 since he had professed his love for her, life had 
 been full of meaning and promise. It was, in fact, 
 very different, but still sad. 
 
 It was not at all surprising that she spent her
 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED in 
 
 moments of leisure meditating upon the new inter 
 est that had come into her life and permitting her 
 thoughts to dwell at times upon Leonidas. 
 
 The thought of him gave constant delight, but 
 the condition of her uncle, and the state of mind 
 through which he was passing on account of the 
 unknown trouble, alarmed her. She made repeated 
 efforts to believe the dream had no meaning, call 
 ing to mind many of her own which had no bearing 
 upon anything in her life that had gone before, or 
 that had come after. 
 
 Her uncle now lay in an almost unconscious 
 condition, breathing heavily. 
 
 Gabriel Arnold had been unkind to her, it was 
 true, and she knew he had been wicked in a gener 
 al way, but that he had been guilty of any overt 
 act which could be the cause of such a distressing 
 dream, she could scarcely think possible. The 
 progress of the deed, judged by the dream, appeared 
 to be the commission of an act, then a regret, after 
 ward a fear. He had dreamed of striking some 
 foreigner, upon whom a severe injury, if not death, 
 had been inflicted. Then at seeing the result of 
 his act he had groaned out his regret in the agony 
 of repentance. Finally the fear of arrest seemed to 
 have seized him and he had made a desperate ef 
 fort to escape, and fancied his pursuers lingered 
 about him long after he awoke. 
 
 As Isabel looked out of the window, longing for 
 some diversion from harrowing thoughts, she ob 
 served in the sycamores a man leaning with his 
 elbow against one of the trees which bordered the
 
 H2 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 lane on both sides. His head was resting against 
 his hand. He was some distance away, and it was 
 impossible to tell just who it might be. Her first 
 thought, of course, was that it might be Leonidas, 
 but then she decided this was improbable, as he 
 would not likely stand there and run the risk of 
 discovery, which he so much feared before leaving 
 Uncle Zeke's. As she gazed longer she concluded 
 that the man in the sycamores must be Leonidas, 
 as his height and the color of his clothing corre 
 sponded exactly with those of her lover. 
 
 Presently a carriage passed the young man and 
 approached Gabriel Arnold's house. As it did so 
 he seemed surprised, left the tree against which 
 he was standing, and looked after it as it went up 
 the lane, and then disappeared in the pine woods 
 on his right. 
 
 The carriage which had aroused Leonidas from 
 his absorbing meditations contained Dr. Demster, 
 who was on his way to visit the strange patient at 
 Briarcrest. Accompanying the doctor was a young 
 officer named Joel Vantine. 
 
 "O, Doctor, Doctor, I'm so glad you've come," 
 cried Isabel, as the flea-bitten gray mare slowly 
 jogged up to the stile in front of the Arnold home 
 stead. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" asked the doctor, kindly, 
 as he stepped from the carriage and looked stead 
 fastly at Isabel. "Is your uncle worse?" 
 
 "Yes, worse in every way, and I am troubled 
 about him." 
 
 When within the hall, and with the door closed
 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED 113 
 
 behind them, Isabel related the occurrence of the 
 night before. She told him in detail how strangely 
 her uncle had acted ; and that he looked very much 
 like a madman, meanwhile crying out and refus 
 ing to be assured of safety. 
 
 "Just as I feared," remarked the doctor, when Is 
 abel had concluded. 
 
 "Do you think it was more than an ordinary 
 dream, Doctor?" asked Isabel, fearfully. 
 
 "I am inclined to believe it was," the doctor 
 thoughtfully remarked. "He evidently dreamed, 
 and by it was greatly excited ; but it was more than 
 a dream when he leaped from the bed and ran 
 across the floor to make his escape. It was then an 
 hallucination; and the pursuit was as real to him 
 as if officers of the law had broken into his room 
 to take him away for the commission of some foul 
 crime. Hallucinations of this kind are the result of 
 cerebral derangement, and are common phenomena 
 in cases of insanity." 
 
 "But do you think my uncle is insane?" asked 
 Isabel, with horror in her voice and face. 
 
 "No, not yet," answered the doctor, slowly; "but 
 I do not feel inclined to say that he will not be. He 
 is certainly suffering from a great mental shock, 
 and if relief cannot be given him his case will be 
 come serious." 
 
 "Do you really think he saw the men in pursuit 
 of him ? or may it not be that he only dreamed it ?" 
 asked Isabel. 
 
 "He thought he saw them," answered the doc 
 tor, "and you could not persuade him to the con-
 
 H4 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 trary. Like a man in delirium tremens, the object 
 before his distorted imagination has the effect of 
 being real. He actually believed he was being 
 sought by unfriendly persons." 
 
 "Why were you not surprised at his condition, 
 Doctor? You seem to have anticipated it." 
 
 "This was my fear when I first called," answered 
 the doctor. "I then thought and I still think your 
 uncle's trouble is more mental than physical." 
 
 "O, Doctor, do you think his mind will become 
 deranged?" asked Isabel, becoming more and more 
 concerned. 
 
 "I am not sure; but that he is under a great 
 mental strain I am certain, and no one can tell 
 what will be the outcome of it." 
 
 "Have you an idea what is the cause of this men 
 tal strain of which you speak?" 
 
 Isabel was determined to force the physician to 
 speak freely to her. 
 
 "I, I hesitate to say, but" 
 
 "Tell me the worst, Doctor. I must know." 
 
 "Your uncle is probably carrying, well well " 
 
 "Carrying what, Doctor?" persisted Isabel, with 
 a pleading earnestness, fearing the old doctor 
 would yet withhold the information. "I must 
 know. Tell me all." 
 
 "Carrying some great secret, and fears a sudden 
 disclosure," answered the doctor. 
 
 "O, Doctor, you alarm me by the suggestion. 
 What is the nature of the secret?" asked Isabel. 
 As she stammered out the question she leaned 
 against the wall for support.
 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED 115 
 
 "I'm sure I do not know," replied the doctor, 
 "but the conduct that you describe, and the nature 
 of his talk during the strange spell, is suggestive, to 
 say the least." 
 
 Isabel became so disturbed at this that Dr. Dem- 
 ster, fearing she might fall, supported her by plac 
 ing his left hand against her shoulder, and with the 
 right, taking her by the hand, led her across the 
 hall, where she sat upon a chair and leaned against 
 the balustrade. 
 
 "My child," continued the doctor, gently, "I am 
 not certain; I only surmise. Your uncle's actions 
 while in bed, and his first utterance, and the subse 
 quent apparition, I fear, have some bearing upon 
 the secret with which he is burdened. To my mind, 
 the heavy blow he appeared to deal, accompanied 
 by the words, 'There, you foreign devil; take that. 
 You infernal Frenchman!' is very significant, in 
 deed." 
 
 Isabel caught the doctor's meaning and by this 
 she knew his opinion of her Uncle Gabriel. He 
 needed not to say more, for she could now read his 
 thought. He evidently believed her uncle was 
 guilty of a grave offense. Could it be possible? 
 And was she forced to believe it, whether she would 
 or not? 
 
 "O, Doctor, Doctor ! Do you mean it ?" cried Is 
 abel, loud enough to be heard by Arnold himself. 
 "Is my uncle the guilty wretch you intimate?" 
 
 Gabriel Arnold, at this unguarded cry of his 
 niece, again became alarmed. He leaped from the 
 bed and paced about the room, maddened with
 
 n6 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 fear. Then he rushed to one corner, stooped close 
 to the floor, with his face buried in his arms, shriek 
 ing: 
 
 "O, Isabel, Isabel ! They are coming. They are 
 coming back. They'll catch me. O ! O !" 
 
 The peculiar sound of Arnold's cry, and the 
 pleading tenderness with which he called her name, 
 made Isabel forget herself for a time, and in a mo 
 ment more she and the doctor had entered the 
 room and were standing at the unhappy man's 
 back. He pressed closely into the corner, to hide 
 from his imaginary pursuers, looking over his 
 shoulders as Isabel and the doctor approached. 
 
 "O, Isabel, Isabel! I'm so glad you've come," 
 ejaculated Arnold, shudderingly. "Didn't you hear 
 them? They have come back." 
 
 "No, uncle," answered Isabel, "it was the doc 
 tor and I talking in the hall. Here he is. Don't 
 you recognize him ? Look !" 
 
 As Dr. Demster looked into Gabriel Arnold's 
 bewildered eyes he saw, back of them, a troubled 
 soul. He also observed the old man's great frame 
 shaking, from head to foot, though his own pres 
 ence had somewhat quieted him. The doctor was 
 more than ever convinced of the correctness of his 
 diagnosis of the case, as he had given it to Isabel 
 but a few moments before. He was thoroughly 
 persuaded now, as he had not been during his first 
 visit; thought, then suspicion was aroused that the 
 patient was suffering from an incipient case of 
 paresis occasioned by the commission of some act, 
 the disclosure of which, might cause serious trouble.
 
 ARNOLD'S CASE is DIAGNOSED 117 
 
 Understanding the case so thoroughly, Dr. Dem- 
 ster knew just what treatment to employ to create 
 a normal condition in the patient, and thus restore 
 him to a rational state of mind. His presence al 
 ways had a salutary effect, which unfortunately did 
 not continue; for it was not long after his first 
 visit that Arnold again became the inhuman brute 
 he had been so often of late and then dropped back 
 into a melancholy state of mind in which he was 
 quite docile. Upon the slightest provocation at any 
 time he would rage like a madman. 
 
 Arnold was soon induced to come out of the cor 
 ner and return to bed. Dr. Demster, accompanied 
 by Isabel, left the room to give the necessary direc 
 tions for the treatment of her uncle. 
 
 "Doctor, do you entertain the same opinion of 
 my uncle's case, now that you have seen him for 
 yourself, or is it possible that you may have changed 
 your mind? May you not have been mistaken?" 
 questioned Isabel, eagerly, as the doctor stepped 
 from the door. 
 
 "No, my dear girl; not mistaken," said the doc 
 tor, emphatically. "My mind is not changed; nor 
 am I mistaken. There is no avoiding the fact that 
 your uncle is in great distress of mind, and I fear 
 I can guess his secret. I hope I am mistaken, but 
 the chances are that I am right. Make the best of 
 it, my child. I fear for the future of your uncle." 
 
 In a moment more Dr. Demster and Joel Van- 
 tine, who had remained in the carriage, were on 
 their way down the sycamore lane at the speed of 
 the old mare's customary jog, leaving Isabel stand-
 
 u8 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 ing upon the stile watching them sadly as the car 
 riage moved slowly away. 
 
 Vantine could not resist the impulse to look 
 through the small glass in the back curtain of the 
 carriage to admire Isabel as she stood thus alone; 
 and several times, while the view was unobstructed, 
 he leaned half over the side in order to see her 
 more plainly than was possible through the little 
 curtain window. 
 
 Dr. Demster, though always in a thoughtful and 
 serious mood, observing the young man's interest 
 in Isabel, broke the silence by asking: "Have 
 you seen Miss Proctor before? You seem to be 
 interested in her." 
 
 "I have seen her once before," said Vantine. 
 "She was then conversing with a black-haired chap 
 rather fine looking, I confess and unless I'm 
 greatly mistaken that fellow who stood against 
 the tree, there, is the same lad. Interested? I 
 should say I am. I don't know her, but I mean to 
 scrape an acquaintance, and if that fellow is in the 
 way well well he'll have to get out of it that's 
 all. He has nice hair, and I admit is passably good 
 looking; but you know these gray clothes, brass 
 buttons and the gold lace on these sleeves are every 
 thing in a girl's eyes. Mark me! That girl will 
 never turn down the uniform of a dashing Confed 
 erate officer, no matter what she may think of an 
 ununiformed rival."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 COUNT DE BUSSY 
 
 COUNT DE BUSSY was one of the favorites of 
 Napoleon III, and was intimately associated with, 
 and occupied an important place in the history of 
 the foreign affairs of the Second French Empire. 
 He was a descendant of one of the most ancient 
 and honorable families of Lorraine. His father 
 had been an ardent Bonapartist, and by his gallant 
 services at Friedland, Luxembourg and Verdun 
 had attracted the attention of the First Napoleon, 
 who gave him honorable mention and granted him 
 a liberal endowment. So loyal had he been to the 
 great Emperor that he remained a Bonapartist 
 under the Restoration regime, and afterward lived 
 in exile until the Revolution of '30, when he again 
 rendered heroic service as a general. 
 
 It was the elder de Bussy who, after passing 
 through various campaigns, and receiving numer 
 ous wounds, followed the Emperor as far in his 
 humiliation as he was permitted. His enforced 
 parting from the man whom he considered his 
 master was extremely pathetic. When Napoleon 
 and his suite were ordered from the Bellerophon 
 to the Northumberland de Bussy begged the 
 privilege of accompanying him to St. Helena, offer 
 ing to serve in the most menial capacity.
 
 I2O 
 
 When delay was no longer tolerated he clung to 
 the fallen Emperor's knees and wept like a child. 
 As the Northumberland sailed toward the far-away 
 prison island, and the Bellerophon bent her sails for 
 Malta, he stood upon the deck, gazing through his 
 tears, as he exclaimed : 
 
 "O that I might enjoy the honor of being a 
 prisoner with the greatest and best of rulers ! Have 
 not I loved him as well as Bertrand, Montholon, 
 Las Casas, or Gourgaud?" 
 
 It was not surprising that when the fortunes of 
 Napoleon III changed, and he emerged from his 
 exile and obscurity, his attention should have been 
 drawn to the younger de Bussy, whose father had 
 been so faithful to his illustrious uncle. When 
 elected to the Presidency of the French Republic 
 de Bussy was elected as one of his chief advisers, 
 and in the transition period, when the government 
 was passing from republic to empire, Napoleon 
 sought the young man's counsel to aid in steering 
 the unsteady ship of state, and through all the 
 movements in its subsequent success he contributed 
 considerably more than one man's share. 
 
 In the Italian campaign his service was conspic 
 uously heroic. At the Bridge of the Buffalora, in 
 the battle of Magenta, which was won and lost 
 seven times in a single day, his heroism had much 
 to do with turning the tide of battle and giving 
 the victory at last to the army of the Emperor. At 
 Solferino, where for sixteen hours the bloody con 
 test raged, his services were no less valorous. 
 
 It was for his gallantry in these two decisive en-
 
 COUNT DE BUSSY 121 
 
 gagements that Napoleon III constituted de Bussy 
 a member of the Legion of Honor, and presented 
 him publicly with the medal of the order. The 
 medal bore upon one side a profile of the Emperor, 
 and upon the other a short inscription which told 
 of his bravery at Magenta and Solferino. 
 
 Count de Bussy was not only brave upon the 
 field of battle, but he was wise in the council cham 
 ber as well. He was entrusted with the solution 
 of many important questions of state, and proved 
 himself to be one of the shrewdest diplomatists of 
 the Empire, bringing to a happy culmination most 
 of the negotiations undertaken during his incum 
 bency. 
 
 When this illustrious Frenchman first made his 
 appearance in Tidewater Virginia, many and va 
 rious were the rumors concerning him. His visits 
 in the beginning were only occasional, and no one 
 knew whence he came or where he went. When it 
 became noised abroad that the handsome foreigner 
 was a French nobleman of high rank, many of the 
 wiseacres shook their heads and ventured the 
 opinion that he was a pretender, and that he was not 
 in Tidewater for any good purpose. 
 
 This verdict was confirmed in the minds of not 
 a few when it happened that the Count was pay 
 ing attention to a daughter of one of the prosper 
 ous families. When the foreigner and Miss Marie 
 Clendenning were one evening seen standing to 
 gether upon the veranda of her father's home, ad 
 miring a century plant just about to bloom, the 
 town folk then knew the Frenchman was not what
 
 122 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 he was represented to be, and that his only pur 
 pose was to marry the rich man's daughter and in 
 this way get possession of the father's wealth. 
 
 A more important rumor was quietly circulated, 
 but failed to gain general credence. It was to the 
 effect that the stranger was really a French noble 
 man, and that he was in Virginia attending to some 
 state business of vital importance. It was believed, 
 and had been for some time, that the Emperor of 
 France was anxious for the recognition of the in 
 dependence of the Confederacy, and it was thought 
 that Count de Bussy was his representative to the 
 President of the Confederate States; and that his 
 visits to Tidewater were incidental. 
 
 Conjectures were abundant, but this much was 
 known. A Frenchman, who claimed nothing for 
 himself but for whom rumor claimed much, vis 
 ited Tidewater Virginia, in 1861. He was tall, 
 broad-shouldered and well-proportioned. In his 
 walk he stepped with a steady tread and clearly 
 showed the military bearing. His forehead was 
 unusually high and broad, and his brow heavy. His 
 face was clean-shaven, except for a tuft of beard 
 near his ears. He wore a heavy coat, buttoned 
 from the waist to the neck. This had a wide collar 
 turned back, exposing a conspicuous black silk 
 cloth, which was wrapped about his neck in such 
 a fashion as to obscure completely his shirt bosom 
 and white collar, though the latter article stood 
 sufficiently high to touch his ears. 
 
 It was further known that the stranger made but 
 few friends. Indeed, there was but one home he
 
 COUNT DE BUSSY 123 
 
 ever visited. No one knew, though many imagined 
 they knew, just why he spent so much time at the 
 Clendennings' whether it was merely to woo the 
 beautiful daughter or if it had some political sig 
 nificance. 
 
 The matter, however, was soon settled. The 
 careful and conservative Virginians of Tidewater 
 were shocked at the announcement of the marriage 
 of Count de Bussy and the young woman to whom 
 he had been devoted. The family had been warned 
 against the French pretender, but the wooing went 
 on and the marriage took place. Notwithstanding 
 the brief courtship and the sudden marriage there 
 were those who believed that the Count had busi 
 ness to transact other than matrimony, and that 
 sooner or later it would be known just what was 
 his errand. 
 
 Count de Bussy vanished as suddenly as he had 
 come. When he disappeared the town folk renewed 
 their gossip concerning him. Many again insisted 
 that he was a pretender; and that, now, having ac 
 complished his purpose, he had gone without leav 
 ing any trace of his whereabouts. Others said he 
 was suddenly summoned to France on important 
 state business, and that he would soon return to 
 complete the negotiations between President Davis 
 and Napoleon III, but they thought it exceedingly 
 strange that he should leave, even on such impor 
 tant business, without some intimation as to where 
 he had gone. His young wife waited in sadness, 
 but no tidings from the Count came to silence suspi 
 cion and to assure her of his fidelity.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 Two SURPRISES 
 
 UNCLE ZEKE sat upon the side of his cot medi 
 tating upon recent events. How much had hap 
 pened! It was past midnight, but the old man had 
 not yet retired. There was nothing to prevent his 
 going to bed, but he felt no desire to do so. His 
 mind dwelt upon his master and what had hap 
 pened on the "Dark Day," though he shuddered as 
 he reflected upon it. Again, in fancy, he saw the 
 ghost in the pine woods. Gradually his mind re 
 verted to less horrible subjects, and he wondered if 
 Leonidas had gone through the pines, and if he, 
 too, had seen the ghost. 
 
 It was not these unpleasant reflections which had 
 prevented Uncle Zeke from retiring. He had a pre 
 sentiment that he ought to sit up. He wondered if 
 it could be that Leonidas, or some friend of his, 
 might need him. The old slave started suddenly, 
 as he heard a rapping at the cabin door. 
 
 "I knows de meanin' ob dat two loud raps, an' 
 two easy uns; den, un moe loud un. Dat's Mars 
 Lonny Darwood. I knows it, kaise dat's de kin' ob 
 knocks dat he tol' me 'bout when he lef hyar," said 
 Zeke, jubilantly, as he hobbled toward the door. 
 "Cum in, Mars Lonny, I's bin 'speckin' yer dis 
 long time. I jes knowd yer wus cumin' dis night. 
 I's felt it in my ol' bones. Dat I did."
 
 Two SURPRISES 125 
 
 When the midnight visitor responded to the in 
 vitation, and stepped from the darkness into the 
 dim light of Zeke's cabin, the old negro was 
 startled to discover that it was not Leonidas. It was 
 a stranger whom he had never seen before. He 
 staggered back in the direction of the cot, trembling 
 violently and his knees knocking together as he 
 scanned more carefully the appearance of the un 
 timely visitor. Recovering from his surprise and 
 disappointment, and stepping closer to the stran 
 ger, the old man said : 
 
 "I hain't scyard, no surree, Zeke hain't 
 scyard. I don't know yer, stranger. Fs never seed 
 yer befoe, but I knows yer's got sum word frum 
 Mars Lonny Darwood. He tol' yer how ter knock 
 at dat doe. Cum, stranger, tell ol' Zeke 'bout Mars 
 Lonny." 
 
 The stranger was of medium height and rather 
 stout, with broad shoulders. He was attired in a 
 long loose garment, not a coat, buttoned from neck 
 to skirt, and this reached nearly to the floor as he 
 stood erect. It hung in irregular folds about his 
 body, scarcely touching him except where it was 
 bound by a leather belt buckled tightly about his 
 waist. To this belt, on one side, a knife was fas 
 tened. He wore a high, broad-brimmed hat, made 
 of soft material, and pulled far down, and his ears 
 stood out at right angles from the sides of his head. 
 His long jet black hair fell in ringlets ; his whiskers, 
 like his hair, were black and kinky, and were of 
 that sort which turned toward the face after a 
 short length and appeared to take root at the other
 
 126 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 end. His complexion was unusually dark, and his 
 eyes, set deep beneath heavy brows, were raven 
 black. 
 
 Though Uncle Zeke declared he was not discon 
 certed, and that he knew somewhat of the stranger's 
 mission, he was, nevertheless, greatly impressed 
 with the man's striking appearance, and wondered 
 if, after all, he might not be mistaken. If so, what 
 could his errand be, and what could he do in the 
 hands of such a man? 
 
 As Zeke eyed his visitor, a few points attracted 
 his attention. He observed that, while the man's 
 complexion was darker than that of many slaves, 
 it was apparent that he was not a mulatto. He was 
 not a negro, but a foreigner. This much Uncle 
 Zeke was able to determine. He also discovered 
 that the man's long garment had been torn in many 
 places, chiefly about the neck, and was patched with 
 cloth of a different color and texture, and on his 
 temple, extending over his left eye, there was an 
 ugly wound, not yet wholly healed. 
 
 Zeke, less confident than when the man entered, 
 asked again with some hesitancy: "Who am yer, 
 stranger? What yer cum fur? Did yer cum frum 
 Mars Lonny Darwood? Whar's Mars Lonny, an' 
 what he wants?" 
 
 "Him sent Mine frind me him sent," said 
 Ezra, the bear trainer, pointing first in the direc 
 tion whence he came, then to himself. 
 
 Placing his hand in his bosom he took from it 
 a letter, and handed it to Zeke, saying impress 
 ively: "Mine frind sent letter Isbel take
 
 Two SURPRISES 127 
 
 must know take her letter. Mine frind well me 
 go. Me die for mine frind save mine life." 
 
 Ezra gesticulated extravagantly, and made a 
 great effort to explain to Zeke that Leonidas had 
 saved his life, and that in consequence he was ready 
 to die for him. He pointed to the scar on his head, 
 and exclaimed: "Mine frind save life, big bear 
 me die for him, save life." 
 
 Without another word Ezra passed impressively 
 out of the cabin door and disappeared in the dark 
 ness. 
 
 Zeke did not understand all that Ezra meant. 
 But he did grasp a part of his meaning, at least. 
 He knew now that he was entrusted with a secret 
 message to Isabel, and that at the earliest possible 
 moment he must deliver it in person. 
 
 The next morning Isabel was sitting under the 
 scuppernong arbor with a basin of cracked corn 
 in her lap. The half-grown game chickens were 
 running and jumping and flying about her feet, as 
 Zeke limped to where she sat and touched her 
 upon the arm. 
 
 "Missis Bel, hyars er letter frum Mars Lonny," 
 he whispered. "I knows yer wants ter read it. 
 When yer's read it let ol' Zeke know 'bout Mars 
 Lonny, kaise I's ben er worryin' an' er dreamin' 
 'bout 'im." 
 
 Without asking how he had received the letter, 
 with a glance of gratitude she ran eagerly down the 
 sycamore lane, and turned into the pine woods, by 
 the very path Leonidas had taken a short time be 
 fore. Feeling the need of caution, she had placed
 
 128 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 the letter under her apron, and did not remove it 
 until she was out of sight of the house. When she 
 reached the branch which runs through the pine 
 woods, she sat under the tree where Leonidas had 
 found the French medal, and after looking about 
 began to read: 
 
 "DEEP CREEK, VA. 
 
 "Mv DEAREST ISABEL : Events have taken a pe 
 culiar turn since I left Briarcrest, but I believe the 
 hand of a gracious Providence is shaping my life. 
 Many strange things have happened. I cannot 
 write about all of them, but will tell you of them 
 when I am so fortunate as to see you again. 
 
 "You will be interested to know that I have found 
 a friend in Dr. Demster. He is a strange old man, 
 and does not care for many people, but he has been 
 very kind to me, and has made it possible for me 
 to be self-supporting. I am attending to some of 
 his lumber interests in the swamp, for which he is 
 paying me generously. The doctor does not 
 promise me anything for the future, except to be 
 my friend, and he has asked me for my friendship. 
 
 "By the way, he told me about his visit to Briar- 
 crest, and his impressions concerning your uncle's 
 condition. If his opinion be correct, and the case 
 turn out as he thinks, it will be fearful. But let 
 us hope for the best, and trust he is mistaken. I 
 have been forced to have my own opinion about it, 
 too. 
 
 "I found in the woods, just where the path cross 
 es the branch, a strange medal, which was owned by 
 a French nobleman, and on which is a noted name
 
 Two SURPRISES 129 
 
 and date the name of Count de Bussy and the 
 date, 1859. But I will tell you more about it when 
 I see you. 
 
 "The doctor has also told me of the young Con 
 federate officer's chance visit to Briarcrest, and 
 how he was impressed with you as you stood upon 
 the stile in front of the house. Did you know he 
 was careful to watch you as long as he could, by 
 leaning out of the carriage? 
 
 "Now, my dearest Isabel, don't think I am uneasy 
 or jealous. You have not told me yet that you love 
 me, but I trust you do, and that when I see you. 
 again, you will tell me so, in the same unmistakable 
 language in which my own love was expressed. It 
 is quite natural that Vantine should admire you. It 
 would surprise me if he did not. But, Isabel, I 
 wish to caution you against this man. He means 
 no good to me, and I am persuaded that he means 
 none to you. I have been forced to count him as 
 an enemy, and he will not scruple to do me the 
 greatest injury. Be on your guard against him 
 and give him no quarter, as he made his boast to 
 Dr. Demster that you could not resist his uniform ; 
 and that if I were in the way of his suit he would 
 dispose of me. 
 
 "Dearest Isabel, I love and trust you fully. Until 
 we meet, good-bye. Yours, lovingly, 
 
 "LEONID AS. 
 
 "P. S. I will come to Briarcrest some time soon 
 probably in a few days. L." 
 
 Isabel read the letter again and again, with vary 
 ing emotions. The fact that Leonidas had found
 
 130 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 a friend in Dr. Demster pleased her, while the repe 
 tition of the doctor's opinion of her uncle's case 
 distressed her greatly. The reference to Vantine's 
 visit produced a strange sensation. She hoped 
 Leonidas might be mistaken in his opinion, but still 
 she wondered what strange chance had brought the 
 young Confederate across their . pathway. The 
 changing moods produced by the letter were all 
 overshadowed by its short postscript. The pros 
 pect of seeing Leonidas in a short time delighted 
 her so that even the reference to her uncle and the 
 prospect of a probable interference on the part of 
 Vantine, were powerless to depress her. 
 
 Isabel sat at the root of the tree with the letter 
 lying upon the ground at her side. She was lost 
 in thought, and perfectly oblivious to the surround 
 ings, until she was aroused by the snapping of a 
 twig. She knew the meaning of the sound, for it 
 was exactly like the peculiar noise produced by her 
 own tread upon a dry pine stick, as she had come 
 into the woods. She arose quickly, and without 
 pausing to learn the exact cause of the noise, started 
 down the path to make her way back to the syca 
 more lane, leaving the letter lying on the ground. 
 
 "Excuse me, Miss Proctor," came a voice from 
 behind her. "Here is your letter. You probably 
 did not intend to leave it." 
 
 It was Vantine who spoke. He had seen Isabel 
 as she passed into the woods, and had hastened to 
 enter from another direction. He succeeded in 
 reaching the tree under which she was sitting, with 
 out being observed. While she read the letter, he,
 
 td
 
 Two SURPRISES 131 
 
 too, had noted most of its contents, and had seen 
 plainly the parts which referred to Gabriel Ar 
 nold, the French nobleman and himself. When he 
 saw Isabel lay the letter down, and knew she was 
 meditating upon its contents, he attracted her at 
 tention by snapping a dry stick. 
 
 Isabel was surprised and disturbed, but grasped 
 the situation immediately, as she observed the 
 young man in the uniform of a Confederate lieu 
 tenant. She knew it was Joel Vantine and recog 
 nized him as the officer who had accompanied Dr. 
 Demster to Briarcrest. 
 
 "O!" exclaimed Isabel, tremblingly. "Thank 
 you for calling my attention to the letter. It is 
 from a friend, and it would surely look like care 
 lessness to leave it here on the ground. I thank you, 
 Mr. Vantine, most sincerely." 
 
 "Then, you know who I am?" 
 
 "Yes, I know you are an officer in the Confed 
 erate States Army, and I have lately learned your 
 name," admitted Isabel. 
 
 "Then, I am sure you will hear what I have to 
 say, when I tell you why I am here," continued 
 Vantine. 
 
 "I wondered, when I saw you, just why you were 
 here," answered Isabel, "and if you had just come 
 when you trod on the stick, and spoke to me." 
 
 "I came to see you, Miss Proctor," said Vantine, 
 hurriedly. "I have had something to say to you 
 since I saw you standing on the stile and this is my 
 first opportunity. I wish to say it now. Will you 
 hear me?"
 
 132 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "But I must hasten back to the house," Isabel 
 expostulated. "My uncle is not well, and I have 
 been away too long already. You will excuse me, 
 Mr. Vantine, I am sure." 
 
 "No, I'll not excuse you. You must hear me 
 now," answered Vantine, in a very determined tone 
 of voice, drawing nearer to where Isabel stood and 
 endeavoring to take her by the hand. 
 
 Isabel now realized that she was powerless to 
 withdraw at once and she determined to make the 
 best of an unpleasant situation. To be alone in the 
 woods with a man concerning whom she knew 
 little, and that little unfavorable, was a very undesir 
 able position. Moreover, he was the man about 
 whom Leonidas entertained such serious suspicion. 
 
 "What have you to say to me, Mr. Vantine?" de 
 manded Isabel, snatching away her hand, as she 
 stepped back a pace from where the officer stood. 
 
 "Miss Proctor, don't be afraid of me," pleaded 
 Vantine, with considerable tenderness in his voice. 
 "I mean no harm to you, I vow. I mean only the 
 best happiness for you. This is why I am here." 
 
 "What is it that you wish?" asked Isabel, realiz 
 ing his meaning as she saw the suggestive expres 
 sion of his eyes. 
 
 "It is needless to multiply words. I mean that 
 I love you, and have waited for an opportunity to 
 ask you to become my wife. I have made the op 
 portunity, and I ask you now and here to marry 
 me. What dp you say ? Will you have me ?" 
 
 "I I I why, Mr. Vantine, what did you say?" 
 
 "I ask you to become my wife," answered Van-
 
 Two SURPRISES 133 
 
 tine slowly, smiling at her agitation, "and I will be 
 patient until you give me your answer." 
 
 "W e e e 11, it is hardly fair to insist upon 
 an answer now," announced Isabel. "You took me 
 so by surprise that I was not at all prepared for it. 
 You greatly compliment me by wishing me to be 
 come your wife, but you know so serious a matter 
 should be considered very carefully. I am not 
 ready to answer." 
 
 "Miss Proctor, I love you," persisted the soldier, 
 gazing into her eyes; "do you wish more than 
 that?" 
 
 "No," replied Isabel, slowly; "I could ask no 
 more of the man I marry. If a woman has a man's 
 love, she has everything; but I am not ready to be 
 come your wife." 
 
 "Why can't you take me, and be mine?" urged 
 Vantine. "What stands in the way? O, I think 
 I know. Are you engaged to to that is 
 rather a direct question, but are you not engaged 
 to Leonidas Darwood? Have you told him you 
 love him?" 
 
 The sound of Leonidas Darwood's name from 
 the lips of the man whom he believed to be his 
 enemy caused her to shudder and shrink away. 
 
 "No, I am not engaged to Leonidas Darwood, or 
 to anyone else, but I am not ready to promise to 
 become your wife. You do not know the conditions 
 of my life or I am sure you would not ask me to 
 marry you." 
 
 "I know more about your life than you imagine," 
 
 responded Vantine, hoping to commit her to a fav- 
 10
 
 134 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 orable answer at once. "I know your parents are 
 dead, and that you are not happy with your uncle. 
 Pardon me if I say also that I know you are poor." 
 
 "And still you wish me to become your wife?" 
 
 "Yes," the soldier answered, "I do. I wish to 
 give you position in the world, and, as my prospects 
 are very flattering, I am sure you could never re 
 gret becoming my wife." 
 
 "You are very kind to wish to change my posi 
 tion in life, but you must not insist further upon 
 having my answer now, except to say that I am not 
 ready to marry you." 
 
 "I understand," said he, beginning to grow im 
 patient. "I see who stands in the way. It is Le- 
 onidas Darwood. I know more about this than 
 you think. If only Leonidas Darwood stands in 
 the way of you consenting to become my wife, con 
 sider which of us is more likely to put you in the 
 world where you deserve to be. Leonidas Darwood 
 has been driven from home. He is an outcast, and, 
 to say the least, his future is rather uncertain ; while 
 my position is perfectly secure." 
 
 The soldier made the statement with evident 
 pride, as he pointed to his gray uniform. 
 
 "Do you think that is certain?" asked Isabel, and 
 Vantine saw by her countenance how much her 
 question involved. 
 
 "Certain? Of course," said Vantine, emphati 
 cally ; "as sure as the sun shines in the heavens. The 
 Confederacy is sure to succeed. We will yet have 
 our independence, and I have assurance from head 
 quarters that I shall be a part of the regular estab-
 
 Two SURPRISES 135 
 
 lishment. Of course you know what that means." 
 
 "I know, but upon what do you base your hope? 
 Why do you think the Confederate States will gain 
 their independence?" 
 
 Isabel was genuinely interested in the great con 
 flict, and also was delighted with any turn in the 
 conversation that would relieve her embarrassment. 
 
 "Have you not heard," continued Vantine, "that 
 our army is having great victories, and that many 
 of the Northern people are in sympathy with our 
 cause and declare the war to be unjust that is, for 
 the North? Then, the powerful nations of Europe 
 also wish us well, and will soon recognize our inde 
 pendence. In England interest is at fever heat, and 
 the great statesmen are watching the progress of 
 our war, and are showing their preference for our 
 side. Mr. Gladstone has just declared that Jeffer 
 son Davis is 'the Creator of a Nation/ while the 
 famous John Bull Russell has written to the Lon 
 don Times that the defeat of the Northern Army at 
 Fredericksburg was a memorable day in the decline 
 and fall of the American Republic.' ' 
 
 "The fact is," went on Vantine, impressively, 
 "the European nations are anxious for the success 
 of our cause, as it means the dismemberment of the 
 Union. They are jealous of the United States and 
 its wonderful advancement, and would enjoy seeing 
 two small nations rather than one powerful nation 
 to dictate the policy of the world. Mark me, the 
 plans for our recognition are all laid by several of 
 the nations of Europe, but more particularly by 
 France, and "
 
 136 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "France," interrupted Isabel, quickly, "France! 
 What about France?" 
 
 Recalling her uncle's dream to mind, the mention 
 of France or Frenchmen excited Isabel, and she 
 could not resist the impulse to break into his reas 
 oning at this point. 
 
 "I suppose I am trusting you with some inside 
 secrets," admitted the officer, reluctantly, "but Na 
 poleon III, Emperor of France, has already sent a 
 distinguished nobleman to Richmond to see Presi 
 dent Davis in order to make the proper arrange 
 ments for our recognition." 
 
 "Who is this nobleman, and where is he now?" 
 questioned Isabel. 
 
 "Count de Bussy," answered Vantine, "who be 
 came so distinguished in the Emperor's Italian cam 
 paign in 1859. He has now returned to France 
 to report the negotiations which he has made; and 
 when he comes to our country again, which will be 
 soon, we shall be recognized and our independence 
 assured." Continuing, Vantine added : "Miss Proc 
 tor, do you not see my flattering prospects ?" - 
 
 "How strange !" thought Isabel. "Count de Bus 
 sy! Count de Bussy! That is the name on the 
 medal Leonidas found, probably on this very spot. 
 How strange! How strange! Count de Bussy! 
 What can it all mean?" She was lost in thought 
 when Vantine spoke again: 
 
 "Miss Proctor, why are you so sad? And why 
 do you still hesitate? I would be ever so patient 
 if I but knew you preferred me to Leonidas Dar- 
 wood."
 
 Two SURPRISES 137 
 
 "Mr. Vantine, you say Count de Bussy will soon 
 come back?" asked Isabel, ignoring his plea. 
 
 "Of course he will come back, and that right 
 soon," answered Vantine, feeling that if this fact 
 could be established his success with Isabel was as 
 sured. 
 
 "O, I hope he will. I hope the Count will come 
 back!" exclaimed Isabel, shaking her head, and 
 turning quickly she left the young Confederate 
 standing in the woods, looking in dismay at her 
 retreating figure as it vanished along the path.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ISABEL'S INTEREST IN THE COUNT 
 
 AFTER the incident in the pine woods Isabel, for 
 a time, felt relieved to have escaped from her un 
 pleasant predicament. She nevertheless felt anxious 
 to hear more of what Vantine might have to say 
 regarding the mysterious Count, and what was 
 proposed relative to the recognition of the Confed 
 erate Government by the European powers. More 
 particularly was she concerned about his absence, 
 and the probability of his speedy return to Virginia. 
 The return of the Frenchman meant everything to 
 her, even though it might not prove of vital im 
 portance to the Confederacy. 
 
 In her anxiety Isabel found herself longing to 
 have the Confederate lieutenant come again to 
 Briarcrest, even though his presence and his pur 
 pose were detestable. The knowledge that Count 
 de Bussy was safe in France would drive many 
 haunting fears from her troubled mind. She was 
 desirous of hearing the news, even at the expense of 
 suffering the embarrassment of coming into contact 
 with Joel Vantine, the enemy of Leonidas. In fact 
 she was not certain that her desire to see Vantine 
 was not greater than to see Leonidas himself. 
 
 Several days after Isabel had left Vantine so 
 abruptly, having a little respite from household
 
 ISABEL'S INTEREST IN THE COUNT 139 
 
 cares, she again walked down the sycamore lane 
 and sat at the root of one of the large trees near 
 the path that led through the woods to the right 
 She was careful to take a position so that a tree 
 should stand between her and her uncle's house, but 
 where she could plainly see the two approaches to 
 the farm. She was expecting Leonidas, for it was 
 now several days since he had said he would come. 
 She was reading his letter, and had repeatedly 
 scanned the postscript: "I will come to Briarcrest 
 soon probably in a few days." She wondered if 
 he might not come while she waited; and if he did 
 she was sure he would come down the path through 
 the pines, for that was the way he had chosen be 
 fore. 
 
 As Isabel sat dreaming and listening, with the 
 letter at her side, she thought of the possibility of 
 a strange coincidence. While thus reflecting she was 
 startled by the tramping of a horse's feet in the pine 
 woods not far away. She felt at once that it was 
 not Leonidas, for he had no horse. It might be 
 Vantine, for, as an officer in the Confederate cav 
 alry, he must have a horse. She brushed her way 
 through the honeysuckle and swamp laurel at the 
 entrance to the path, and was soon in the woods to 
 ascertain who was approaching. 
 
 Vantine had just dismounted, and was hitching 
 his sorrel horse to a sapling, as Isabel emerged 
 from the undergrowth. 
 
 "Are you here, Miss Proctor?" he asked, with 
 glad surprise. "I came hoping I might see you, and 
 here you are, not far from where you left me so
 
 140 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 abruptly a few days ago. I'm glad to see you, and 
 I'd rather see you here than anywhere else." 
 
 "I'm sorry I hurried off then," said Isabel, de 
 murely, "for I have since regretted that I did not 
 remain to hear more." 
 
 "O, I'm glad to know that your mind has 
 changed concerning me. Are you now willing to 
 hear me? May I tell you again that I love you?" 
 
 "Will you not tell me first about the prospects of 
 which you spoke the other day ?" asked Isabel, elud 
 ing his embrace. "I am anxious to know about 
 that. After I left you I became more and more in 
 terested in that part of the conversation, and have 
 been sorry that I was so hasty in leaving you. Will 
 you believe me if I say I have been desirous to see 
 you ever since?" 
 
 "You delight me, Miss Proctor, by saying that, 
 and I am greatly pleased that you are so interested 
 to know my prospects. I honor you the more for 
 your caution. When I last saw you, I confess I 
 showed my over-anxiety to win you; but while I 
 am just as anxious now I prefer first to tell you 
 about the bright outlook I have in the army of the 
 Confederate States, if you desire to know." 
 
 Isabel wondered if it were right to lead Vantine 
 on under a misapprehension, but still she felt that 
 she must know something more concerning Count 
 de Bussy, and Joel Vantine was the only man of her 
 acquaintance who could tell her what she wished to 
 know. Her intense desire for news from the Count 
 was uppermost now. Incidentally, Isabel desired to 
 know more about the mysterious foreigner's mis-
 
 ISABEL'S INTEREST IN THE COUNT 141 
 
 sion to the Confederate States; and as the young 
 officer had the information she decided to induce 
 him to confide in her, at the expense of hearing his 
 protestations of love. 
 
 "Mr. Vantine, did you say that Count de Bussy 
 has gone to France, and that he would soon re 
 turn ?" began Isabel, glancing at him. "The Count 
 is still alive, isn't he, Mr. Vantine?" 
 
 "Alive! Alive! Certainly," said Vantine, 
 quickly, in surprise. "Who says he is dead?" 
 
 Isabel realized that she had asked an unwise ques 
 tion, and that it excited not a little wonder in the 
 mind of the soldier. With all the tact at her com 
 mand she endeavored to divert the young man's at 
 tention from this particular point and elicit the in 
 formation she desired by a less direct method. 
 
 "Why no one that I know of," answered Isabel, 
 carelessly, "but as he has not been seen lately, and 
 since he is charged with such grave responsibilities, 
 I was fearful for him. That's all." 
 
 "I assure you that the Count is safe, and will soon 
 return to Virginia and when he does, he will bring 
 with him the proper recognition of the Confederate 
 Government." 
 
 "I trust he may," said Isabel, with a sigh which 
 indicated a fear that it might not be so. 
 
 "You seem to doubt the return of the Count, Miss 
 Proctor. Why do you doubt it?" 
 
 "It means so much to you," responded Isabel 
 with telling effect, "and so much more to me, that it 
 seems too good to be true." 
 
 "You mean that our interests are identical," said
 
 142 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Vantine, joyfully, his eyes kindling with happiness. 
 "I am so glad you think this. Do I understand you 
 correctly, Miss Proctor?" 
 
 "I am greatly concerned for the Count greatly 
 concerned and am much interested in his early re 
 turn to Virginia," said Isabel, hastily. "Will you 
 now tell me about the Count, and your prospects? 
 I understand the mission of Count de Bussy has 
 to do with the proper recognition of the Confed 
 erate States by France, and that your prospects 
 depend upon the establishment of the Confederate 
 Government. Are you quite sure it will come out 
 as you desire?" 
 
 "There is no doubt about it," protested Vantine, 
 confidently. "This is the way of it, Miss Proctor. 
 You understand that the entire French nation is in 
 sympathy with our cause, and that the Emperor and 
 his ministers will soon recognize our independence. 
 Count Mercier, the minister representing the French 
 Empire at Washington, is decidedly favorable to 
 us, and has advised Napoleon to interfere on our 
 behalf by raising the blockade. Not long since he 
 was in Richmond, and had several interviews with 
 Mr. Benjamin. It was reported that he was looking 
 after tobacco purchased by French citizens and 
 held by the South, but that was only a ruse. We 
 know he will meet Count de Bussy on his return 
 and complete the negotiations for our independence. 
 
 "In addition to this, Count de Morny, who is 
 the first man in the French Empire after the Em 
 peror himself, told Mr. Rost, our former represen 
 tative, and our present representative, Mr. Slidel,
 
 ISABEL'S INTEREST IN THE COUNT 143 
 
 has the assurance from the Emperor as well as 
 from Count de Morny, that but a short time will 
 elapse before the Confederate States Government 
 will be as legitimate in the eyes of the nations as 
 the United States Government now is. You may 
 rest assured, Miss Proctor, that our future is now 
 guaranteed." 
 
 "But suppose the Emperor fails to recognize the 
 South?" inquired Isabel. "Is there not a suspicion 
 that he is reckless in his promises ? And may it not 
 be that he hasn't so much interest in the South as he 
 pretends to have?" 
 
 "His object, of course, is to break up the Ameri 
 can Union," said Vantine. "This can only be done 
 by lending his influence to establish the Confed 
 eracy. This much he is sure to do." 
 
 "Then why does he delay? If he wants to do it, 
 why does he not do it at once?" 
 
 "It is said that he is waiting for General Lee to 
 take Washington," answered Vantine; "but I am 
 not sure that this is his reason." 
 
 "Then what?" demanded Isabel. "When Gen 
 eral Lee marches his troops into the capital of the 
 nation there will be little need for Napoleon to in 
 terfere. The South will then be recognized be 
 cause it has conquered." 
 
 "Of course, the Emperor of France will not wait 
 for this," Vantine answered, confidently. "There 
 are certain questions of diplomacy which must be 
 settled before the negotiations are complete, and 
 that these are fairly begun, there is no doubt. 
 These questions the Emperor has entrusted to
 
 144 I N THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Count de Bussy, and when he returns all arrange 
 ments will be completed. Then we shall be an in 
 dependent nation the happiest people on earth. 
 Miss Proctor, the thought inspires me." 
 
 "But suppose the Count does not return, Mr. 
 Vantine?" 
 
 Vantine could scarcely fail to perceive that this 
 question was significant, and of paramount im 
 portance to Isabel. Her tone of voice, and the sug 
 gestive expression of her beautifully sad counte 
 nance, indicated that it was weighted with a mean 
 ing which he could not understand. 
 
 "But he will come back," Vantine assured her 
 quickly. "Why do you suspect that this trusted 
 agent of the Emperor will not return? You seem 
 to have grave fears about it. Will you tell me the 
 reason ?" 
 
 "We cannot always tell what might happen to a 
 man," replied Isabel, evasively, "and I was hoping 
 that nothing had happened, or would happen, to pre 
 vent the Count's returning. That's all, Mr. Van- 
 tine." 
 
 "If the Emperor fail to recognize us, and Count 
 de Bussy should not come back," said the soldier, 
 recovering from a moment's pause, "we will gain 
 our independence anyway, for our army is being 
 successful in the field and the Yankees will 
 soon be driven over the line. They have had Mc 
 Dowell and McClellan, Hooker and Burnside, but 
 they have all failed, and President Lincoln is in a 
 quandary as to what to do. He has appointed Gen 
 eral Meade, who attracted his attention at Freder-
 
 ISABEL'S INTEREST IN THE COUNT 145 
 
 icksburg when Burnside lost the battle, but it is not 
 certain that he will continue in command. 
 
 "It is reported that Lincoln has his eye on a man 
 in the West named Grant. Not much is known 
 about him in the East, but he is stirring things out 
 there, and is doing our cause more damage than any 
 other general, or than all of them combined. I 
 confess we are a little suspicious of him," con 
 tinued Vantine, importantly, "as he seems to be the 
 only one of their commanders who is having much 
 success. We fear him, as he seems to have no fail 
 ures at all. He has such a dogged persistence in 
 his fighting, that we have reason to wish he was not 
 a factor in the war. But if this man Grant come 
 it will not affect the result, though he may change 
 conditions somewhat. All their commanders com 
 bined would not be a match for our General Lee. I 
 trust you believe this, Miss Proctor." 
 
 "Y e e e s," said Isabel, though her ex 
 pression and tone belied the word, "but I should feel 
 greatly relieved to know -that Count de Bussy would 
 soon return." 
 
 The young officer perceived that Isabel Proctor 
 was not enthusiastic ; but her admission that she be 
 lieved in the success of the Confederacy, though it 
 came with reluctance, furnished him with a reason 
 to urge his suit as he had done when they met be 
 fore. 
 
 "Then my prospects are pretty bright, aren't they, 
 Miss Proctor? The authorities are already favor 
 ing me," said Vantine, pointing with pride, first to 
 his sleeves, then to the collar of his coat. A few
 
 146 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 days before the insignia on the soldier's sleeves had 
 been wrought with a single strip of brilliant lace. 
 Now the stripes were double; and on his collar 
 triple bars of gold were seen instead of the twin 
 bars of the lower grade. The lieutenant had been 
 promoted to the rank of captain. 
 
 "Y e e s, they are," admitted Isabel, ab 
 stractedly, looking about her as if she expected to 
 see some one approaching. 
 
 "Then it's settled. You'll be mine. We can fix 
 matters now," said Vantine, with genuine delight, 
 as he stepped nearer to Isabel, and took both of her 
 hands into his own. 
 
 The girl turned away for a moment, and the 
 young Confederate realized there was no response 
 to the emotions of his own heart. His love was evi 
 dently genuine and this lack of passion pained him. 
 Her presence was charming to him; and her face 
 inspired him to higher thoughts, but he desired some 
 expression of pleasure at his touch. While Isabel 
 hesitated, racking her brain for the best non-com 
 mittal response to what had just been said, Vantine 
 broke the silence. 
 
 "Do you still hesitate? Why do you turn from 
 the man who loves you more than he loves his own 
 life? Is it Leonidas Darwood, the outcast, that 
 causes you to hesitate? If you have told him you 
 will marry him can you not recall it? and should 
 you not retract for your own good? What pros 
 pect has he, working in the swamp among criminals 
 and negroes?" 
 
 "Now I am certain that you read my letter," ex-
 
 ISABEL'S INTEREST IN THE COUNT 147 
 
 claimed Isabel. "You have blundered in your at 
 tack on Mr. Darwood. It is a mistake, and the 
 allusion in your last question is not gentlemanly, to 
 say the least of it." 
 
 Vantine felt the stunning rebuke, and for a time 
 did not know just how to meet it, but said finally: 
 "Miss Proctor, you told me you were not engaged 
 to Leonidas Darwood. Is this true?" 
 
 "It is true, and I am free to marry anybody or 
 nobody, as I like; but it is certain that I will not 
 marry you, with all your military finery and bright 
 prospects," said Isabel, with cutting emphasis which 
 caused the soldier to feel the conviction of her 
 words. With a look of scorn she snatched away her 
 hands from him, and ran down the path in the di 
 rection of the sycamore lane. 
 
 A crackling of sticks and the rustling of under 
 growth indicated that some one else was not far 
 away and the Captain for a moment, seemed 
 startled, but looked about him to see who was ap 
 proaching. He wondered if this could explain Isa 
 bel's sudden flight. The footsteps could now be 
 distinctly heard , and the voice of a man was saying : 
 
 "This is the very spot."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 THE RIVALS FACE TO FACE 
 
 IN a moment more, some one leaped over the 
 stream just back of where the soldier stood. He 
 turned, and Joel Vantine and Leonidas Darwood 
 were face to face. Each was not a little surprised 
 to see the other there and neither spoke at once. 
 They seemed to be trying to adjust themselves to 
 the peculiar situation. 
 
 "You are here according to promise, I see," said 
 the soldier in rather a brusque manner. "Do you 
 always meet her in the woods?" 
 
 "According to promise?" echoed Leonidas in an 
 undertone, greatly surprised at the manner in which 
 the soldier made the statement, and wondering how 
 he could know that it was according to promise that 
 he was at Briarcrest. "Yes, according to promise, 
 but what do you know about it?" 
 
 This was indeed a question to Leonidas. He was 
 perplexed to know just how Vantine should be 
 aware of his promise to see Isabel. Had the soldier 
 in some way intercepted his letter, and, by this 
 means, secured the information? He was sure of 
 its safe delivery to Zeke. The thought that the old 
 slave had been intentionally unfaithful he would not 
 entertain. But might Zeke not have lost the letter? 
 If so, he had no way to communicate the fact. Had
 
 LEONIDAS DARWOOD
 
 THE RIVALS FACE TO FACE 149 
 
 Isabel been thrown with the soldier, and inadvert 
 ently given him the information? How could it 
 have happened that his enemy should know of the 
 promise to be at Briarcrest ? And why should Van- 
 tine now be in the very way he would select to ap 
 proach the farm? And, moreover, near the spot 
 where the medal had been found ? 
 
 "I know all about it," replied the soldier, in a 
 louder and more insolent tone than before. "You 
 promised to be here in a few days, and I'm glad to 
 run across you. I want to settle a few things with 
 you, and there is no better place than this, and no 
 better time than now." 
 
 "I presume many strange things have occurred 
 in these woods," said Leonidas, looking toward the 
 pine under which he found the medal. "It is a pity 
 that these trees and that stream can't talk. I have 
 no doubt they could tell a strange story one that 
 would surprise and alarm you." 
 
 "Would it surprise and alarm you, too?" asked 
 Vantine, in no little curiosity. 
 
 "It might alarm me," admitted Leonidas, "but I 
 should not be much surprised. I should be expect 
 ing to hear startling things if these woods could 
 talk. But what have you to settle with me?" 
 
 "It is you who have disturbed Miss Proctor's 
 mind about the return of Count de Bussy. What 
 did you mean when you said, 'If the case turn out 
 as Dr. Demster thinks it will be fearful/ and that 
 you were forced to have your own opinion of it, 
 too? You are an alarmist, my dear fellow. What 
 is your opinion worth, anyway? and that medal,
 
 150 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 belonging to Count de Bussy, where is it now? If 
 I believed your story, I would demand to see it on 
 the spot. Why do you not think the Count will 
 come back?" 
 
 Leonidas was utterly dumfounded at this revela 
 tion, and scarcely knew what to reply. The soldier 
 had gained information that was intended for no 
 one save Isabel. Had Vantine read his letter? 
 How had he secured it? Had Isabel, in an un 
 guarded moment, revealed to him its confidences? 
 
 "I shall be glad if my impressions are not cor 
 rect," said Leonidas, "but I fear the Count is not 
 coming back." 
 
 "What do you know about his mission?" asked 
 Vantine, with open impatience. 
 
 "I know what some people think about Napoleon's 
 plan to recognize Confederate independence," an 
 swered Leonidas, "and that Count de Bussy was the 
 commissioner sent to President Davis ; and I also 
 know there are those who think he has gone to 
 France to report the negotiations, and that he will 
 soon return to complete them, and you are among 
 them, I presume." 
 
 "Don't you believe it?" asked the soldier, ear 
 nestly. "You seem to doubt it." 
 
 "Yes, I am compelled to believe he was an agent 
 of the Emperor. Everything seems to point in that 
 direction, but I confess I have my misgivings about 
 his return. I think he would like to come back. He 
 would desire to return to complete the work he has 
 so well begun, but I fear he can't come back even 
 though he wishes to do so."
 
 THE RIVALS FACE TO FACE 151 
 
 "Will you tell me why?" demanded Vantine, 
 sneeringly. "Has he displeased the Emperor, so 
 that he has recalled him? I'm surprised that you 
 have this opinion of so wise and good a man as the 
 Count has shown himself to be." 
 
 "I should be glad if my suspicions are not cor 
 rect," repeated Leonidas. "There is something 
 strange about his disappearance. His young wife 
 did not know when, or how he went, and she has 
 been wandering around the country nearly crazed 
 looking for him." 
 
 "O, that's easy to explain," said Vantine con 
 temptuously, considering Leonidas stupid for net 
 perceiving the reason for the Count's mysterious 
 disappearance. "If the Count had informed any 
 one about the time and manner of his departure, it 
 is more than probable that some one would have 
 interfered with his plans. I suspect you remember 
 the case of Mason and Slidel, the distinguished 
 Confederate representatives to London and Paris, 
 and how they were delayed and embarrassed by the 
 interference of an officious Yankee captain. The 
 Count, understanding how delicate his duties are, 
 concealed the manner of his departure." 
 
 "We differ as to our opinion of the Count's re 
 turn," persisted Leonidas, coolly. "This is a matter 
 we are unable to settle. What is the next point of 
 difference you wish to adjust?" 
 
 Leonidas paused for an answer, and wondered 
 what it might prove to be, for he was now confident 
 that Vantine was informed as to the contents of his 
 letter to Isabel.
 
 152 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "I desire to settle the matter of Miss Proctor's 
 preference," said Vantine, roughly, after some 
 hesitancy. 
 
 "Miss Isabel Proctor alone can settle mat mat 
 ter," returned Leonidas with dignity. "How can 
 you settle the preference of any young woman? 
 Miss Proctor has the right of choice, and I don't 
 see what either of us has to do with the matter of 
 her choosing. I'm sure I'm willing that she should 
 decide all matters for herself. What particular 
 matter of preference do you mean?" 
 
 "You know what I mean," said Vantine in a 
 rough, insolent tone, as he advanced a step nearer 
 Leonidas. "You are aware that I admire Miss 
 Proctor. I don't hesitate to say that I love her, and 
 you think you stand in the way of my gaining her 
 affection. I'm free to say that I fear this is true. If 
 you would leave here and stay away forever, and 
 refrain from your clandestine communications, there 
 would be little or no doubt of my success, and " 
 
 "My clandestine communications?" questioned 
 Leonidas. 
 
 "Yes, your clandestine communications," roared 
 Vantine. "You seem surprised, but you know you 
 have written her a letter in which I am savagely 
 attacked. You tried to arouse her suspicion con 
 cerning me and question my intentions concerning 
 her. It's true mat I mean no good to you, but it is 
 not true concerning Miss Proctor. I mean all good 
 to her, and I intend to put her in the position she 
 deserves to occupy. What can she expect from yon, 
 who are an outcast, a common laborer in Dismal
 
 THE RIVALS FACE TO FACE 153 
 
 Swamp ? You depend upon Dr. Demster and you'll 
 come to grief. That old chap knows how to take 
 care of his gold." 
 
 "But Miss Proctor will have to decide as to who 
 shall win for her a position in the world," re 
 sponded Leonidas. "It is she who will say how her 
 station is to be fixed. It will be neither you nor I." 
 
 "With you out of the way I am sure that she 
 would decide in my favor," said the soldier, 
 sharply, his face blazing with indignation. 
 
 "We differ again, Captain. I much prefer that 
 she should decide this matter. If she prefer a 
 soldier to an outcast, I shall be content. But in any 
 event she will have to decide." 
 
 "Then you admit that you are a suitor?" de 
 manded Vantine. 
 
 "It is evident that you read my letter," replied 
 Leonidas. "I'm sure I don't know how you came 
 by it, but I'm certain that you know what I wrote to 
 Miss Proctor. I stated just what was in my heart 
 then, and there has been no change since, so far as 
 you are concerned." 
 
 "You did try to prejudice her against me, then?" 
 rejoined Vantine. 
 
 "I warned her against you, I'll admit, as I shall 
 do again when I am so fortunate as to see her. 
 Your threat would justify this." 
 
 "I did threaten to put you out of the way, and I 
 meant every word of it," said Vantine, flushing. 
 He suddenly placed his hand roughly against young 
 Darwood's shoulder and gave him a push backward. 
 
 Slowly, and with determined emphasis, as he re-
 
 154 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 covered himself, Leonidas replied: "You are not 
 worthy of so lovely a girl as I know Isabel Proctor 
 to be. I repeat what I have " 
 
 Before the declaration could be repeated, the 
 young officer moved back quickly a pace or two, 
 and then planting one foot before the other, drew 
 his sword, and held it within an inch of his rival's 
 breast. 
 
 "Say it again, and you're a dead man," he 
 shouted. "I dare you, sir, to say it again. An out 
 cast swamp laborer shall never insult a Confederate 
 captain a second time. Do you dare repeat it?" 
 
 "I repeat it," replied Leonidas, firmly, and quietly 
 raising a hickory stick the one used in killing the 
 rattlesnake he struck the sword well up the 
 blade, sending the steel jingling through the pines 
 and leaving only the hilt in the captain's hand. "I 
 repeat it, sir. You are not worthy of Isabel 
 Proctor." 
 
 Vantine realized his disadvantage in the sudden 
 destruction of his weapon, and sprang at Leonidas 
 with fingers aimed at his throat. In an instant the 
 two men were engaged in a hand to hand encounter. 
 Leonidas placed his hand in the collar of the 
 soldier's coat, and, as if by magic, turned him half 
 around, and drawing him over his hip dropped the 
 officer on the ground, flat on his back. In an in 
 stant he was leaning over the prostrate form, and 
 with one knee upon his breast, he said, "Captain 
 Vantine, you are not worthy of Miss Proctor." 
 
 "Don't! Don't! For Heaven's sake don't, 
 Leonidas !" cried a troubled voice that penetrated the
 
 THE RIVALS FACE TO FACE 155 
 
 air and echoed through the pines. "Don't! For 
 mercy's sake!" 
 
 Isabel had gone only a short distance, and had 
 concealed herself in the undergrowth where she 
 could see and hear all that passed between the two 
 men. When she observed the anger in Vantine's 
 face, and saw him draw his sword, and heard him 
 threaten Leonidas, she became alarmed, and when 
 the rivals were engaged in a close struggle, with one 
 man beneath the other, she sprang from the under 
 growth and ran to where they were struggling, cry 
 ing, "Don't! For Heaven's sake don't! Do you 
 mean to kill him?" 
 
 "No," retorted Leonidas, quickly, and turning, he 
 was surprised to find it was Isabel who had spoken,. 
 "I don't mean to kill him, but I mean that he shall 
 leave this place at once." 
 
 Addressing Vantine, who was still on the 
 ground, Leonidas asked, "Are you ready to go?" 
 
 "A good soldier always knows when he is con 
 quered," answered Vantine, reluctantly. "You're 
 the conqueror, and I am ready to leave at your com 
 mand. Let me up and I'll be off." 
 
 Leonidas rose from his bending position, and took 
 his knee from Vantine's breast, bidding him stand, 
 but still holding his coat. 
 
 "Will you go, and at once ? But before you prom 
 ise, we will refer the matter to Miss Proctor. She 
 shall decide between us." 
 
 Turning to Isabel, Leonidas said: "One of us 
 must go. Which shall it be? Must he go, or 
 shall I?"
 
 156 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "O, Leonidas, don't leave me," exclaimed Isabel, 
 imploringly, as she put her hands on his shoulder. 
 "Don't leave me at the mercy of this man." 
 
 "Captain Vantine, you'll have to go," said Leoni 
 das, slowly, but so firmly as to cause the soldier to 
 feel the importance of an immediate decision. "Will 
 you go without assistance?" 
 
 The Confederate was soon on his horse riding re 
 luctantly away, muttering and scowling. As he dis 
 appeared down the path that led to the Gosport 
 road, he cried : 
 
 "This is not settled yet."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 ON THE VERY SPOT 
 
 WHEN the sound of the horse's hoofs had died 
 away in the distance, Leonidas touched Isabel and 
 beckoned her to follow. He led the way down to 
 the branch and helped her across at the very place 
 where he had leaped over a few days before. They 
 stood in silence for a moment under a huge pint! 
 tree the tree about which so much centered and 
 the one that was destined to be of still greater in 
 terest to Isabel. 
 
 "This is an interesting spot to me," observed 
 Leonidas, with an oppressive solemnity about his 
 voice that increased the sadness of Isabel's heart. 
 
 "The place attracts me too, for it was here that 
 I read your letter. I laid it down on the ground 
 when I read it, and was thinking about you. Cap 
 tain Vantine was concealed behind the tree and 
 read the letter over my shoulder. I came here think 
 ing I should be alone, and was surprised when he 
 disclosed his presence and handed me the letter." 
 
 "Yes, you have a reason for remembering the 
 place," admitted Leonidas, with some hesitancy, 
 "but I fear there is a reason of more importance, 
 that will make it of greater significance to both of 
 us." 
 
 "What could mean more than your letter? And 
 what is of more interest than the way in which Cap-
 
 158 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 tain Vantine found out what you had written? I 
 feel heartily ashamed that I was so careless." 
 
 Leonidas took from the inside pocket of his coat 
 a small buckskin bag and extracted the medal. 
 
 "This is what gives the place such interest. I 
 found it here. It is the medal of the French Legion 
 of Honor and it belonged to Count de Bussy." 
 
 "I suppose when the Count returns from France," 
 said Isabel, watching the face of her companion in 
 tently, "y u will find some way to give it to him." 
 
 "Yes," replied Leonidas, "if he ever comes back, 
 he can have it, but I fear he will never return to 
 claim it." 
 
 "Why will he not come back?" inquired Isabel, 
 anxiously, yet dreading his reply. 
 
 "I fear to tell you all I suspect," Leonidas an 
 swered, sadly. 
 
 "Tell me the worst, Leonidas," taking the medal 
 in her hand and turning it over several times. "It 
 was Count de Bussy's, for here's his name." 
 
 As the girl uttered the name of the French Count 
 she looked pitifully at Leonidas, and overcome by 
 suppressed fear sank at the root of the tree. 
 
 "It was the Count's " 
 
 "Tell me the worst," Isabel insisted. "I must 
 know." 
 
 "You have a right to know," answered Leonidas, 
 "but can you hear it now?" 
 
 "Tell me," replied Isabel, feebly, "I can bear 
 anything better than this torture." 
 
 "It's this way," began Leonidas. "This medal 
 belonged to Count de Bussy up to the time of his
 
 ON THE VERY SPOT 159 
 
 disappearance a short time ago. You know he has 
 not been seen since the day of the eclipse. Upon 
 that day I have reason to believe he was here, where 
 now we are, and came to his death under this tree. 
 There was a struggle, and in the struggle this medal 
 was pulled from his breast and was overlooked. 
 It was covered with pine needles and dirt, but I 
 uncovered it accidentally and the finding of it has 
 raised many questions and fears." 
 
 "He came to an untimely end? How did it 
 occur?" 
 
 Isabel Proctor turned as pale as death, and her 
 bloodless lips trembled, as she waited for an answer, 
 fearing meanwhile she knew what the answer 
 would be, and fearing too, what the answer might 
 involve. 
 
 "I have every reason to think that Count de Bus- 
 sy was murdered right here," said Leonidas, "and 
 that is the reason why the medal was on this spot." 
 
 "Murdered! Murdered!" gasped Isabel. 
 
 "Of course, I am not absolutely certain," said Le 
 onidas, wishing to break the truth gently to her, 
 "but I have every reason to think so. Uncle Zeke, 
 has strange feelings about this tree and stream, and 
 declares he has seen a ghost here. He says, how 
 ever, he never saw it before the day of the eclipse. 
 On this account he urged me not to come into the 
 woods, and became almost frantic when I smiled 
 at the idea of seeing a ghost. Besides, here is a 
 spot on the ribbon attached to this medal. Dr. Dem- 
 ster has examined it under a microscope and says 
 it is a blood stain. He could not say definitely that
 
 160 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 it was human blood, as human blood so closely re 
 sembles that of some of the lower animals, but the 
 chances are that it is the blood of a man, and not of 
 a beast, Isabel, I am persuaded that this spot of 
 blood came from the Count's wound when he was 
 murdered. And I suspect the whole truth will some 
 day be known." 
 
 "I have tried to persuade myself that the Count 
 would come back, but you think he has been mur 
 dered. May you not be mistaken?" implored Isa 
 bel. 
 
 "I may," admitted Leonidas, "but why " 
 
 "The Confederacy, the Confederacy," gasped 
 Isabel, hoping Leonidas would not suspect her of 
 having any other reason. 
 
 "If the independence of the Confederacy depend 
 upon the return of Count de Bussy, then the Con 
 federacy is already doomed," responded Leonidas, 
 "and it met its fate on this very spot." 
 
 "At whose hands? Who is the murderer of 
 Count de Bussy, and the despoiler of our freedom ?" 
 
 "Maybe, after all, the Confederacy will pull 
 through, even if the Count has been murdered," an 
 swered Leonidas, evasively. "Let us hope for the 
 best. I am sure it looks encouraging without the 
 aid of France." 
 
 "Mr. Darwood, who murdered Count de Bussy?" 
 Isabel demanded. "Who could have murdered him 
 here on my Uncle Gabriel's farm ?" 
 
 "I simply have an opinion," replied Leonidas, 
 "and I trust I am mistaken. It is so easy to entertain 
 a false notion that I am always willing to admit
 
 ON THE VERY SPOT 161 
 
 that I am mistaken. My opinion may be all wrong, 
 and I shall reserve it until I know more than I do 
 at present. A train of circumstances seems to point 
 the way to the murderer of the Count, but then cir 
 cumstances are often deceptive and lead to wrong 
 conclusions. I do not think it quite right to judge 
 anyone from circumstances at any time. No, I 
 don't know who murdered the Count, and from 
 what information I have I'm unwilling to adjudge 
 anyone guilty of the crime. I am willing now to 
 say only that I am convinced of Count de Bussy's 
 untimely death, and that he was murdered on this 
 very spot." 
 
 "I must know, though I fear it may be the 
 worst," said Isabel, in a trembling voice, the tears 
 gathering and streaming down her face. 
 
 Though Isabel manifested great concern for the 
 Confederacy Leonidas felt that there was some 
 thing in her thought deeper even than this. Had 
 it been for the Confederacy alone she was con 
 cerned her feeling would have been that of indig 
 nation, but she was not indignant. She was anx 
 ious, nervous, fearful and sad. 
 
 What was it that was affecting her so seriously? 
 Was it that she knew of the death of Count de 
 Bussy, and was sure he would not return? Was 
 she convinced of his murder? And did she suspect 
 who had slain him? Leonidas discerned the train 
 of her reasoning, and followed it to its inevitable 
 conclusion. He could readily understand the cause 
 of her troubled mind. He made an effort to divert 
 her attention.
 
 162 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Come, Isabel," said Leonidas, with all the ten 
 derness of a young lover, "let us think and talk 
 about something more pleasant. I came to see you, 
 not to make you unhappy; though I felt that you 
 should know my opinion of the disappearance of 
 Count de Bussy. I thought my coming would give 
 you pleasure. Did you expect me? Is that why 
 you were in the woods?"
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 LOVE-MAKING 
 
 Now that the time had come when Leonidas was 
 again with Isabel he wondered if it were to be the 
 glad hour that he had anticipated since she left him 
 in Zeke's cabin the morning after the great storm. 
 He had looked forward to the meeting with great 
 pleasure; for he expected to reassure her of his 
 devotion, and he dared to hope that there would be 
 left no uncertainty as to hers. He remembered, 
 however, that Isabel had never admitted her love 
 for him. That she really loved him, he was con 
 fident, but that she would allow herself to express 
 this emotion so soon he had grave doubts. Man 
 like, he did not realize that Isabel would have any 
 scruples about revealing her feelings to him as 
 plainly as he had done to her. 
 
 If suspense be suffering, Leonidas certainly suf 
 fered. There was a possibility that Isabel, on ac 
 count of the very serious condition of her uncle's 
 health and what had led to this state, might en 
 deavor to place some barrier between them. Then 
 the discovery of the medal and all that it implied 
 might, in the eyes of Isabel, be deemed sufficient 
 cause for denying her love and refusing to accept 
 his. At any rate, if they remained on the very 
 scene of the murder, Leonidas feared that it would 
 be impossible to divert her mind from the horrible
 
 164 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 tragedy, so he decided it would be wise to conclude 
 their visit in some other part of the woods. 
 
 "Come, Isabel, let us leave this unhappy place. 
 Cannot we talk of something more cheerful ?" 
 
 Leonidas bent forward and took her by the hand, 
 and their eyes met. He was confident that she 
 could not misread the eloquence of his, but what 
 was the meaning of hers? Their predominant ex 
 pression was sadness, and this shone forth from a 
 troubled soul. If love were there it was for the 
 time obscured, and Leonidas could not detect its 
 presence. 
 
 "I am ready to leave this horrid place," said 
 Isabel, shuddering, and glancing about as she spoke. 
 
 Leonidas placed his hands beneath her elbows 
 and fairly lifted her to her feet. The two went 
 slowly down the path in the direction of the syca 
 more lane. They walked in silence to a spot where 
 a dogwood tree and a swamp laurel intertwined 
 their limbs across the way, just overhead. Here 
 they paused, looking about them in every direction, 
 and finally sat upon the body of a black gum tree 
 which had been rolled from the undergrowth with 
 in a foot or two of the path. A moment passed be 
 fore the silence was broken, and it might have been 
 more protracted had not a red-bird, disturbed by 
 their coming, jumped from the dogwood to the lau 
 rel, and thence to the ground. The bird was not 
 frightened, for it hopped about and played in front 
 of them, just across the path. 
 
 "How happy the bird seems," remarked Le 
 onidas at last. "Nothing worries it. If a disturb-
 
 LOVE-MAKING 165 
 
 ance is caused in one place it simply hops to an 
 other and forgets what aroused it." 
 
 "Yes," sighed Isabel, "a bird is always happy be 
 cause it knows so little and remembers less. If 
 we didn't know quite so much of what is going on, 
 and could at desire forget the thing that happened 
 yesterday, we might be happy, too. Knowledge is 
 not always conducive to happiness." 
 
 "What knowledge have you that makes you so 
 unhappy?" 
 
 "It may not be knowledge after all; it may be 
 only belief. But, nevertheless, I am unhappy in 
 it." 
 
 "What belief?" asked Leonidas. 
 
 "You have compelled me to believe that Count 
 de Bussy is dead. I hoped he had only gone to 
 France for a short time, as Captain Vantine said; 
 but since you have shown me the medal, with its 
 blood spot, I can no longer persuade myself to be 
 lieve he is alive. To think he is dead, and that he 
 was foully murdered here on my uncle's farm, is 
 enough to make me worry ; isn't it ? If I could be 
 lieve he is alive, it would be a tremendous relief to 
 me, I assure you." 
 
 "He is not alive," said Leonidas with sad em 
 phasis, "but can't you hope for the Confederacy 
 even though the Count is dead? Surely all doesn't 
 depend upon him." 
 
 Isabel remained in thought and Leonidas con 
 tinued : 
 
 "Besides, has it occurred to you that though the 
 
 Confederacy should gain its independence it might 
 
 11
 
 166 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 soon meet with disaster? You know the war is 
 being fought, not because of slavery, but because 
 the right of the state to govern its own affairs is 
 being questioned by the National Government. We 
 claim that a state has the right to secede from 
 the Union. Now, if that right is sustained by the 
 issues of this war, then any state will have the 
 same right to withdraw from the Confederacy. It 
 is more than likely that something will occur to dis 
 please some state say South Carolina and this 
 will cause another secession. Sentiment and com 
 mon safety may hold us together for a time, but 
 sentiment is not strong enough to bind us when 
 the local interest of the state is involved. It is 
 not at all certain that the individual states will sur 
 render all their sovereign rights in order to main 
 tain the Confederacy. I shall be sorry to see it, 
 but I fear the Confederacy will go to pieces like a 
 rope of sand." 
 
 "Mr. Darwood, Mr. Darwood, the Confederacy 
 is dear to me," said Isabel, "and I pray that it will 
 win in this conflict. I would give my life for it. But 
 there is a matter that concerns me greatly now if 
 possible, more than the Confederacy; for I believe 
 the Confederacy will, sooner or later, be established, 
 permanently. There is a wrong which I fear can 
 never be righted, and " 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Leonidas, fearing that he 
 knew just what was troubling her. "Indeed! do 
 you mind telling me what it is that so disturbs you ?" 
 
 "I am not so much concerned about the fact of 
 Count de Bussy's death, unfortunate as that is, as I
 
 LOVE-MAKING 167 
 
 am about the manner of his death," replied Isabel, 
 sorrowfully. "To think he was murdered; and on 
 my uncle's farm ; and by whom ? The thought over 
 whelms me, Leonidas, and I can't help it." 
 
 Leonidas now realized that unless a great effort 
 were made to turn Isabel's thought into another 
 channel she would think and talk of the murder of 
 the unfortunate Count. 
 
 He moved closer to her side, and gently taking 
 her right hand in his placing his left upon her 
 shoulder. After a moment, during which neither 
 spoke, he raised her hand, apparently without know 
 ing it, and pressed it tightly to his breast, whisper 
 ing, "Isabel, I love you." Without a word she 
 turned toward him and looked into his eyes. 
 
 "I know you love me, Leonidas," Isabel an 
 swered, sadly, "but I am tempted to say I'm sorry 
 it is true." 
 
 "Why, Isabel !" he exclaimed in surprised alarm ; 
 "why are you sorry that I love you ?" 
 
 "On your account, not mine," responded Isabel, 
 her tone of voice indicating a meaning that was 
 deeper than the words. 
 
 So perplexed was Leonidas at this unexpected 
 statement that he removed his hand from her 
 shoulder, and turned half around to look her direct 
 ly in the face, before he could determine how best 
 to answer this amazing reason. 
 
 "Tell me what you mean, Isabel. I did not expect 
 this when I came. I hoped you would be glad to 
 see me, and that we should part with a perfect 
 understanding. Tell me what you mean."
 
 1 68 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "To be candid," Isabel answered, firmly, "I mean 
 that it is a great pity for you to love me, because 
 you have shown yourself to be worthy of the best 
 woman that lives and I am not fit for you. It is 
 indeed a great pity. You should love some one 
 whose love, if returned, would not embarrass you." 
 
 "You are worthy, dearest Isabel," exclaimed Le- 
 onidas in a tone of relief; for he realized that her 
 sense of unworthiness arose only from her modesty 
 and self-depreciation. "That matter was settled 
 when I left home. Please don't think of it again." 
 
 "No," she protested, "I am not the person upon 
 whom you should bestow your affection. Had you 
 not better leave me now, and forever? I suggest 
 this for your own good, not mine." 
 
 "O, Isabel, Isabel, I cannot bear to hear this from 
 your lips !" exclaimed Leonidas, sadly. "You should 
 not say such words. Do not bid me, for I will 
 not go." 
 
 "No, I do not bid you to leave me, Leonidas, but 
 I am sure it would be far better for you should you 
 do so." 
 
 "How strangely you talk, dearest," answered Le 
 onidas. "Do you not know that I love you, and 
 that it would break my heart and blight my life 
 forever if you sent me away?" 
 
 "Could you not soon forget me? Many a man 
 has loved a woman truly, and protested as you do 
 now, but when the separation came, the wound was 
 soon healed, and they were both happy." 
 
 "Would you be happy in such a case, Isabel ?" 
 
 "Happy ! No. I may never be happy again," re-
 
 LOVE-MAKING 169 
 
 plied Isabel, "and it is for this reason that I think 
 it better for you to leave me. It is not well for a 
 noble life like yours to be blighted by an unfortu 
 nate alliance with an unhappy woman. I am not 
 willing that it should be so. It is enough that one 
 of us should be doomed to perpetual unhappiness 
 in this life. I confess I am unhappy, and I fear I 
 shall never be otherwise." 
 
 "But, Isabel, listen to me," insisted Leonidas. "I 
 love you, and would give my life for you. Are you 
 not willing that I should make your life happy? 
 Is it no comfort that I love you?" 
 
 "Leonidas, I know you love me. You have 
 shown it in many ways. But be patient and hear 
 what I say. You will be far better off not to love 
 me. I am a very unfortunate girl." 
 
 "What do you mean? What do you mean, Isa 
 bel?" 
 
 "My Uncle Ga ," gasped Isabel. "My Uncle 
 Gabriel. Don't you understand?" 
 
 "But you may be happy in spite of him, if you 
 only will." 
 
 "Not in spite of him. My uncle, my Uncle Ga 
 briel," repeated Isabel, feebly, stopping abruptly 
 lest she might betray too much feeling and com 
 municate more to Leonidas than was necessary. 
 
 "Listen to me, Isabel. I know something of your 
 uncle. I know he dislikes the idea of my coming 
 to Briarcrest to see you or Uncle Zeke. Indeed, 
 from what you heard between him and the strange 
 man, who is no other than Jack Mobaly, it is clear 
 that the two men are plotting against me. If they
 
 170 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 could they would run me off into the swamp and 
 hold me there until I promise to leave Tidewater 
 never to return. I don't fear them, though. Don't 
 let your uncle's feeling toward me cause you any 
 sadness or make you feel that you are so unfor 
 tunate." 
 
 "Yes, my uncle hates you," admitted Isabel, "and 
 I fear, with that vile man, is plotting your ruin. 
 But if you cease to pay attention to me, and keep 
 away from here, he will not have the same reason 
 to do you an injury. Do you not think I am wise? 
 Isn't it better for you not to love a girl who is the 
 niece of such a wicked man ?" 
 
 "You are not responsible for the conduct of your 
 uncle, and should not be compelled to suffer for 
 anything he does. No matter how wicked he is 
 it will not change my love for you. Believe me, 
 Isabel. I will love and cherish you, no matter 
 what your uncle is." 
 
 "But you speak unadvisedly," expostulated Isa 
 bel. "You don't know how wicked he is, and what 
 he has done, and what he may do in the future. 
 Suppose he should bring disgrace on his name; 
 do you not see how unfortunate it would be that 
 you ever loved me? Suppose my uncle should have 
 taken human life; what then?" 
 
 "Still I say, you should not be made to suffer 
 for the sins of your uncle," replied Leonidas, firmly 
 and emphatically. 
 
 "But that is not the way with society. You 
 know I should be discounted forever in social life 
 on my uncle's account."
 
 LOVE-MAKING 171 
 
 "True, but I'm at variance with society in that 
 particular, as you know. I love and honor you ; and 
 honor you the more for raising the question. But 
 will you not dismiss it, and never raise it again?" 
 
 "You are generous, and hot-headed, Leonidas, 
 but I still say it is not right for a young man to 
 blight his life and ruin his prospects by an alliance 
 with a girl who is disgraced. Is it?" 
 
 "I can answer you, Isabel, if I but know but one 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, what is the one thing you wish to know ?" 
 asked Isabel, falteringly. "What is the one point 
 upon which so much depends?" 
 
 "Does the unfortunate girl love the young man 
 who proposes to become a martyr for her sake?" 
 questioned Leonidas. "This is the one thing I 
 should like to know." 
 
 "Suppose she does," responded Isabel in a whis 
 per, still keeping her eyes turned down. 
 
 "Isabel, do you love me? Tell me: do you love 
 me?" 
 
 "Y-e-e-s," she breathed, softly, as Leonidas drew 
 her into his arms and kissed her gently. 
 
 They sat in silence a few minutes, and at length 
 he glanced down into her beautiful face as she 
 turned her head upward and met his gaze. 
 
 "You'll forgive me, won't you, Isabel?" 
 
 "You are forgiven, Leonidas. You were for 
 given before you did it," she whispered. 
 
 Isabel presently realized for the first time since 
 coming into the woods that it was getting late, and 
 that she must return to the house. The meeting
 
 172 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 with Vantine, the interest excited by the disappear 
 ance of Count de Bussy and the speculations con 
 cerning his return, together with the doubtful pros 
 pects of the Confederacy, had been so painfully 
 engrossing to her that she had forgotten how the 
 hours had slipped away. Then the coming of Le- 
 onidas upon the scene, and his encounter with the 
 soldier, and what followed when she was alone 
 with the man she loved, had caused her to be totally 
 oblivious to time. 
 
 They arose to depart and stood facing each other. 
 Leonidas took Isabel's face between his hands, and 
 holding it for a moment bent over until their lips 
 met.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 THE STRANGE WOMAN. 
 
 WHO is coming?" asked Isabel, softly. "It's a 
 woman, and how strange she looks ! What can she 
 want in these lonely woods? Besides, it is nearly 
 night. See what she wants, Leonidas. The poor 
 thing may have lost her way. She looks frightened. 
 I pity her, for she seems to be unhappy." 
 
 They had walked slowly together toward the 
 edge of the pines, where Leonidas would be con 
 cealed from view and still be able to see Isabel un 
 til she had entered the house. They had at last 
 spoken their word of farewell, and had just ar 
 ranged the time when they should meet again, when 
 their attention was attracted to some one approach 
 ing through the woods. As the woman came near 
 er Leonidas thought he recognized her as some 
 one he had seen before. 
 
 "Her face is familiar, but I cannot place her," 
 said Leonidas, turning to Isabel, and speaking in 
 an undertone. 
 
 "But where did you see her?" asked Isabel, 
 quickly, before the woman came near enough to 
 hear what was being said. 
 
 "At the Creek, the evening after the big storm. 
 She looked wild and anxious then, and she appears 
 to be so now. I'm sure it is the same woman. See 
 how she is looking around in every direction.
 
 174 I N THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 She did that at the Creek also, and seemed to look 
 from one person to another as quickly as possible. 
 I am sure she was searching for some one. It is 
 true I was busy with the bear, but still I could not 
 help noticing the woman. And it just occurs to 
 me who she is." 
 
 "Who?" questioned Isabel, but the woman was 
 now too near for Leonidas to answer. 
 
 There had been a well-dressed woman at Deep 
 Creek the day the market folk from Carolina had 
 crowded the village. She stood on the edge of the 
 company and had witnessed the struggle in which 
 Ezra was rescued from the bear. Her peculiar 
 unrest and the ever-searching gaze had attracted 
 attention. It was she whom Jack Mobaly had 
 brushed roughly aside when he disappeared after 
 his cruel act. Leonidas, of course, never expected 
 to see her again, but he was sure that this was the 
 woman. She came nearer, and Leonidas said: 
 
 "Madam, have you lost your way? Can we help 
 you? We are at your service, if you need our as 
 sistance. Are you looking for some one?" 
 
 As they waited for an answer Leonidas realized 
 that he might have known that she was not one 
 of the market folk because she was so much better 
 attired. He was satisfied that her presence there 
 at that time was of unusual import, though no one 
 seemed to know anything regarding her. 
 
 "O, that I might find him ! That I might find !" 
 she cried, wringing her hands frantically. "Can 
 you tell me where he is?" 
 
 "Whom do you seek?" asked Leonidas.
 
 THE STRANGE WOMAN 175 
 
 "Count de Bussy! Count de Bussy!" cried the 
 woman. "I seek my husband, Count de Bussy!" 
 
 She paused for a moment, and looked around in a 
 dazed manner before speaking again. Her speech 
 was incoherent, but eloquent with sadness. 
 
 "My husband, the Count he is gone. I can't 
 find him. I've looked everywhere. Nobody 
 knows. He's gone. They said he wasn't good 
 that he was a pretender. But it isn't true. He 
 was a Count belonged to the Legion of Honor. 
 He had the medal with his name on it, and papers 
 in his pocket. He was a Count; Napoleon sent 
 him. He went to President Davis and Mercier. 
 He is gone and doesn't come back. Have you seen 
 him ? They say he came into the woods, and he has 
 not been seen since. They tell me he has gone to 
 France, and will soon come back. He could not 
 do so. Those wicked men won't let him come 
 back to me. The Count; have you seen him? 
 Have you seen the Count?" 
 
 The rehearsal of this weird story of the strange 
 woman excited Isabel intensely, and disturbed Le- 
 onidas not a little. The reference to Napoleon 
 and the paper prompted him to ask: "Did you say 
 that Napoleon sent him? And that he had papers 
 in his pockets?" 
 
 "Sent him to President Davis," said the woman. 
 "The papers told him what to do." 
 
 "Do you remember what he was to do?" 
 
 She broke into a flood of grief, and soon became 
 hysterical, alternating between weeping and laugh 
 ing. Presently she screamed: "The Count! The
 
 176 IN THE SHADOW OP THE PINES 
 
 Count! To break the Union to set the Confed 
 eracy free." 
 
 The woman suddenly dashed through the woods 
 in the way she had come. As the hour would ad 
 mit of no more delay Leonidas and Isabel parted 
 too, with a promise to meet at the gum log on the 
 afternoon of the next day.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 A PLOT DISCLOSED 
 
 "JES yer wait er minit, Mars Lonny," shouted 
 Zeke, as the signal knocks were distinctly heard 
 on the cabin door, "I knows dat's yer, Mars Lonny, 
 but Zeke kain't hurry, kaise I's got de rumatiz an' 
 Fs 'mos dead. Wait er minit, Mars Lonny, I's 
 'mos dar." 
 
 The old slave hobbled across the room and threw 
 the door open. Leonidas stepped in and quickly 
 closed it. He had spent the early part of the even 
 ing in the pine woods, and at sunset hurried off 
 to Zeke's cabin to spend an hour or two with his 
 old friend before making his way back to the 
 Creek. 
 
 "Well, Uncle Zeke," began Leonidas, "I have 
 had several adventures since I saw you. The man 
 I sent with the letter is now my friend, and Dr. 
 Demster has almost adopted me." 
 
 "Mars Lonny," said Zeke, "I wants ter hyar 
 'bout dat sum udder time. I's got sumthin' fer 
 ter tell yer, dat I wants yer ter hyar, chile. I's 
 bin dyin' ter see yer sence las' night. I's bin right 
 smart an' scyard deed I has." 
 
 "What have you to tell me, Uncle Zeke? Some 
 thing more about that ghost down by the branch in 
 the pine woods?" 
 
 "No, Mars Lonny," replied Zeke, hurriedly, "Fs 
 got sumthin' else fur ter tell yer now. I's gwine
 
 178 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 ter tell yer 'bout dat ghost sum udder time. Zeke 
 hain't gwine ter live long, Mars Lonny. I feels 
 right lak gwine into de big ribber sumtimes, an' 
 befoe I dize I's got sumthin' ter tell, an' it's 'bout 
 dat ghost what I seed down dar in dat pine woods ; 
 but dat hain't what I wants ter tell yer now." 
 
 Leonidas observed that Uncle Zeke was becom 
 ing agitated, just as was the case when he had first 
 related the story of the ghost, and it was apparent 
 that the old man was now showing quite as much 
 interest as when he pleaded with him not to go 
 into the pine woods. 
 
 "What is the other matter that concerns you so 
 much?" 
 
 "Mars Lonny," said Zeke, "I wants ter tell yer 
 dat Mars Gabel Arnold knows dat yer bin hyar, 
 an' he's mighty mad an' scyard 'bout it too. I tells 
 yer he don't want "yer ter cum round hyar. I jes 
 think he's gwine ter do sumthin' weeked ter yer 
 ef he gits er chance. So I wants ter tell yer, an' yer 
 kin jes keep out'n his way. He an' dat strange man 
 is watchin' fur yer all de time. Da am bofe so 
 bad dat da am mean enuff ter kill yer or take 
 yer off ter de swamp. Look out fur urn, Mars 
 Lonny, I ax yer." 
 
 "Why do you think all this, Uncle Zeke?" asked 
 Leonidas with some degree of concern, for this only 
 confirmed what Isabel had intimated and the opin 
 ion she had expressed on the morning after the 
 great storm. 
 
 "Now hyar Zeke, an' he's gwine fur ter tell yer. 
 I hyard Mars Gabel Arnold an' dat strange man,
 
 A PLOT DISCLOSED 179 
 
 what cums hyar nights, talkin'. Da had dar heads 
 close togedder, an' da thought nobody didn't hyar 
 urn, but ol' Zeke hyard um all de same. I hyard 
 all da sed. 'Deed I did. I hyard every word da 
 sed. I's bin scyard an' mighty worried ebber sence, 
 I tells yer. Zeke didn't sleep las' night, an' he 
 wouldn't sleep ter night nuther, Mars Lonny, ef 
 yer hadn't cum hyar. Now yer am hyar ol' Zeke's 
 right smart an' easy, kaise da kain't git yer now. 
 No, da kain't git yer." 
 
 "Can't get me? What do you mean, Uncle 
 Zeke ? You surely have been dreaming. You don't 
 think the patroles will trouble me." 
 
 "No, Mars Lonny, de patterroles ketches de black 
 fokes. Hain't yer hyard um say 'run, nigger, run, 
 de patterroles will ketch yer' ? Ye hain't black an' 
 de patterroles hain't gwine ter ketch yer kaise yer 
 hain't black, but Zeke's mighty fyard, doe, sum 
 body else will." 
 
 "Nonsense," interrupted Leonidas; "who will 
 catch me?" 
 
 "I's gwine ter tell yer, Mars Lonny," said Zeke, 
 with a touch of impatience in his tone. "I's gwine 
 ter tell yer. As I wus sayin', I hyard Mars Gabel 
 an' dat strange man er talkin'. Deed I did, Mars 
 Lonny. Now yer pay 'tention ter ol' Zeke, fur 
 unce. I's afyard yer didn't do dat t'other day, an* 
 I's afyard yer went in dat pine woods whar I tol' 
 yer I seed dat ghost. Now didn't yer?" 
 
 "Go on, Uncle Zeke; I am anxious to hear what 
 you have to say about Mr. Arnold and the strange 
 man," answered Leonidas, ignoring the question.
 
 180 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Mars Lonny, I went down towards de barn las' 
 night, jes fur a leetle walk. I's mighty krippled 
 up wid rumatiz, but I felt right lak I ought ter 
 go down dat way. Yer knows yer habs dem feel 
 ings, an' yer kain't 'splain um no, yer kain't 'splain 
 um. Well, dats de kin' ob feelins dat I had den. 
 So I tuck mysef, an' hobbled down in de 'rection 
 ob de barn, as I wus er tellin' yer. I didn't know 
 but sumthin' might be de matter wid Club Foot, 
 or de chickens, or sumthin' else might be de matter. 
 I jes didn't know jes why I went, but I went, Mars 
 Lonny, enyway, an' I's so glad I went. 'Deed I is, 
 Mars Lonny, I's glad I went. Well, as I was er 
 tellin' yer, I went down dat way, an' when I got 
 jam by de cabin whar ol' Pompey uster stay I jes 
 couldn't go no furder, an' I went in de cabin, 
 kaise de doe wus open, an' I sot down on de floe. 
 When I wus sot down I hyard sum un talkin'. 
 'Deed I did, Mars Lonny, I hyard sum un talkin'. I 
 jes couldn't hep it, but I hyard what da sed." 
 
 "Did they talk about me?" asked Leonidas, and 
 the old slave could discern a somewhat anxious 
 tone in his voice. 
 
 "Yes, Mars Lonny, da talked 'bout yer," said 
 Zeke, impressively; "dat's what I wants ter tell 
 yer." 
 
 "Could you see the men, as well as hear them?" 
 
 "Yes surree ; dat I could. Da wus standin' under 
 de big tree, 'cross de driveway ober f rum ol' Pom- 
 pey's cabin, an' I wus sittin' down on de cabin floe 
 right lak I tells yer. De moon wus shinin', an' I 
 could see de men, but da couldn't see ol' Zeke."
 
 A PLOT DISCLOSED 181 
 
 "How do you know they couldn't see you, Uncle 
 Zeke?" 
 
 "Now, Mars Lonny, yer knows dat ef da had 
 seed ol' Zeke, da wouldn't talk lak da did," an 
 swered the old man with conviction, "fur I could 
 hyar every word da sed. Now yer knows, Mars 
 Lonny, da wouldn't sed what da did, knowin' Zeke 
 could hyar um." 
 
 "What did they say, Uncle Zeke?" asked Leon- 
 idas, with a little impatience at the old man's de 
 lay. 
 
 "Da sed yer wus in de way, an' Mars Gabel sed 
 yer knowd too much ter sute 'im, an' sho' as yer 
 libs, Mars Lonny, dem men means ter do sumthin' 
 bad ter yer. Un ob de men sed, les kill im an' sink 
 im in de branch,' but Mars Gabel sed 'No/ an' den 
 he ax'd dat strange man ter take yer off ter de 
 swamp whar he stays at in de da' time. Mars Ga 
 bel didn't want fur ter kill yer, an' sink yer in de 
 branch, kaise he's got 'miff ob dat branch. Dat 
 branch dun bin monstrus sight ob trouble ter Mars 
 Gabel, an' he don't neber want ter see dat branch 
 ergin. Dat tother man sed he wus ready ter kill 
 yer. He sed he would kill yer, or take " 
 
 "But, Uncle Zeke, do you mean there were three 
 men?" asked Leonidas in excitement. "I thought 
 there were but two one Arnold, and the other Jack 
 Mobaly, who is mean enough for anything. Who 
 could the third man be?" 
 
 "I don't know who dat man wus," said Zeke, 
 "but he wus a soger-man, kaise I could tell by de 
 coat an' de buttons he had on 'im." 
 
 13
 
 1 82 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "A soldier-man! A soldier-man!" said Le- 
 onidas, apparently surprised. "I see and under 
 stand it all now. I know why Mr. Arnold wishes 
 me out of his way, and I know why the soldier- 
 man would like to have me either in the branch or 
 in the swamp; and that man Mobaly, he is in for 
 anything that is wicked. He will do Gabriel Ar 
 nold's bidding for a very small price. I see now 
 what I have to face, Uncle Zeke, and I will do my 
 best to be ready for it. My first effort will be to 
 avoid them ; the next to be prepared to defend my 
 self should I encounter them." 
 
 "Mars Lonny, keep 'way frum dem men," said 
 Zeke, with emphasis, "kaise da means ter kill yer ef 
 da kain't do no better. Frum what da sed, de soger- 
 man an' de strange man what cums hyar nights 
 wouldn't min' killin' ob yer, but Mars Gabel don't 
 want ter kill yer. He wants yer tuck ter de swamp 
 an' kep' whar dat strange man libs. Keep 'way 
 frum dem weeked men, Mars Lonny, I ax yer." 
 
 Here was a deep-laid scheme on the part of these 
 three men Arnold, Mobaly and Vantine to dis 
 pose of Leonidas in some way. The motive was 
 clearly to be seen. It was the night before the meet 
 ing in the woods with the soldier that Vantine had 
 entered the plot to destroy or abduct him, and in 
 the light of this disclosure it was now evident what 
 his purpose was, when he drew his sword, and in 
 his desperation had endeavored to choke his adver 
 sary. The conviction was now growing upon Le 
 onidas that the Confederate officer was not at this 
 time far away, and that he might expect an attack
 
 A PLOT DISCLOSED 183 
 
 any moment. He remembered that the last he heard 
 from him, as his horse galloped away, was, "This 
 is not settled yet;" and now it began to dawn upon 
 him that the encounter between him and Vantine 
 in the woods might have a serious sequel. 
 
 "What was the last thing you heard the men 
 say?" asked Leonidas, "and what became of them 
 afterward ?" 
 
 Leonidas felt that if they had agreed upon a 
 plan of action, he might, in a measure, anticipate 
 what they were intending to do, and hence prepare 
 himself to avoid the emergency that might other 
 wise arise. Though he was a vigorous young man, 
 and felt that he was equal to either of these men 
 where no advantage was manifest, still he shrank 
 from an encounter with all of them at once; for he 
 knew, with their wicked design in mind, and the 
 preparation they were sure to make, it would be 
 difficult to tell the immediate result of a conflict. 
 
 "De las' I hyard dem men say wus dis," said 
 Zeke : "Mars Gabel sed, 'Now, boys, I 'pends on yer 
 ter do dis job. Yer knows I's ol' an' feeble, an' 
 kain't hep yer. So yer jes take dat young debel off 
 ter de swamp.' When Mars Gabel tol' de two men 
 dat he lef um an' went back ter de house. Dis is 
 egzackly right lak I tells yer, Mars Lonny. Da 
 means ter take yer ter de Dismal Swamp, ef da kin 
 git holt ob yer." 
 
 "But what became of the other two men?" 
 
 "Da talked sum moe befoe da went," replied 
 Zeke, quickly. 
 
 "What did the soldier say?"
 
 184 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Don't yer know, Mars Lonny, dat weeked man 
 sed dat he wants Missis Bel, an' ef yer wus out'n 
 de way she'd hab him. La sakes, Mars Lonny, 
 Missis Bel hain't gwine ter hab 'im no way. She 
 hain't gwine ter hab nobody ceps yer. 'Deed she 
 hain't. But de soger-man sed yer had ter git out'n 
 his way, an' dat dis wus his chance, an' it didn't 
 make no diffurence ter him ef da dropped yer in de 
 ribber. De strange man what cums hyar nights 
 sed da wouldn't kill yer, nor put yer in de ribber. 
 He sed da would do right lak Mars Gabel ax'd dem 
 ter do. Den he sed Mars Gabel paid 'im fur de job. 
 Jes think ob dat, Mars Lonny. Now dat wus all 
 da sed, but wusn't dat weeked? I wushed ol' Zeke 
 wus young ergin, an' didn't hab dis rumatiz. He'd 
 show dem men sumthin'. Dat he would, Mars Lon 
 ny; didn't Zeke tell yer dat Mars Gabel Arnold wus 
 er mighty bad man, an' yer jest thot he wusn't so 
 bad." 
 
 "But what became of the two men?" Leonidas 
 asked again. 
 
 "Da went into de pine woods in de 'rection ob 
 de branch," said Zeke, with much nervousness, "an' 
 da didn't stay dar long, I knows, kaise da mutt er 
 seed dat ghost what I's bin tellin' yer 'bout." 
 
 Uncle Zeke paused for a time, and glanced 
 around with great uneasiness. He first looked at 
 the door, and then at Leonidas. He hobbled closer 
 to where Leonidas was standing, and, grasping him 
 by the arm, looked up anxiously into his face, 
 saying in a whisper, "Mars Lonny, did yer hyar 
 dat noise?"
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 AN EXCITING NIGHT 
 
 LEONIDAS listened for what had disturbed Uncle 
 Zeke, and detected the sound of muffled voices 
 which seemed to move about the cabin. Presently 
 the old man asked again, with more animation than 
 before, "Mars Lonny, did yer hyar dat noise?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Zeke, I heard it, and it sounds omi 
 nous." 
 
 "What yer means by dat, Mars Lonny?" asked 
 Zeke, as he looked anxiously into young Darwood's 
 face, and grasped him tightly by the arm. "Wh 
 a a a a t yer means by dat?" 
 
 "I mean that the sound is suspicious, and has no 
 good in it for either you or me." 
 
 "It's dem weeked men cum ter git yer, Mars 
 Lonny," announced Zeke, excitedly, beginning to 
 move nervously about the room. 
 
 Leonidas realized fully that Uncle Zeke's fears 
 were well founded, and that all circumstances in 
 dicated a speedy contest with his enemies; for he 
 distinctly heard one of the men, whose voice he 
 recognized as that of Vantine, say: "Revenge is 
 sweet, and I'll have mine soon. He's here, and I 
 know it." 
 
 Uncle Zeke now became thoroughly frightened; 
 for he knew these men were bent on carrying out 
 their design. Looking more anxiously into his
 
 i86 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 face, still holding Leonidas by the arm with one 
 hand and pointing in the direction of the back door 
 of the cabin with the other, the old man quickly 
 said: 
 
 "Run out'n de back doe, an' lebe ol' Zeke hyar 
 ter hissef. Ef da kills Zeke it don't matter much, 
 as I's not gwine ter lib long, no how. Run, Mars 
 Lonny, run fur yer life. Git out'n dar way. Fool 
 um jes dis unce. Fool urn, Mars Lonny, fur Zeke's 
 sake, fool um." 
 
 "Uncle Zeke, I'll never leave you while there is 
 danger." 
 
 "But da'll git yer, Mars Lonny, da'll git yer. 
 Run, quick, Mars Lonny; run," he pleaded. 
 
 "No, I'll not run," answered Leonidas, with de 
 liberation; "I'll stay by you, and not leave until I 
 am forced to go." 
 
 In another moment there was a tremendous 
 thump, and the cabin door was burst in, splinters 
 flying in every direction. Jack Mobaly and Van- 
 tine quickly approached Leonidas and Zeke, and 
 before many words could be spoken Mobaly had 
 thrown Uncle Zeke roughly into the corner. Van- 
 tine covered Leonidas with a revolver, saying: 
 
 "Move, and I'll blow your infernal brains out on 
 the spot." Vantine's voice was subdued, but de 
 termined, and his teeth were grinding tightly to 
 gether with suppressed passion. He continued 
 with a sneer of sarcasm : "Mr. Darwood, you had 
 your innings in the pine woods to-day. It's my 
 turn now. There you were the victor, and I was 
 vanquished. I knew it, and admitted it. Now the
 
 AN EXCITING NIGHT 187 
 
 advantage is on my side, and I'll dictate terms. 
 You'll surrender, won't you?" 
 
 "Captain Vantine " 
 
 "Don't you speak another word, or you'll drop 
 in your tracks," repeated Vantine, with a pro 
 nounced emphasis. "I'll hear nothing from you. 
 You are in my way, and this is my chance. You 
 shall go where I'll not be annoyed by you again for 
 some time. Mobaly and I will attend to your case, 
 and we will have no words from you." 
 
 "I would rather die than suffer indignity at the 
 hands of these men," said Leonidas, mentally, 
 realizing his embarrassing plight. Then, forgetting 
 for a moment his perilous position, he said aloud: 
 
 "Isabel! Isabel!" 
 
 "Don't profane her name in my presence," 
 shouted Vantine, and as quick as thought he 
 touched the trigger of his pistol, sending a bullet 
 whizzing by young Darwood's head. 
 
 While Joel Vantine was making the most of his 
 advantage over Leonidas, Jack Mobaly had thrown 
 Uncle Zeke into a heap in a corner of the cabin. 
 Then, placing the old man's hands between his 
 knees, he tied them fast together, until the rope cut 
 deep into the flesh. To prevent his making an out 
 cry, even after they should be gone, Mobaly with 
 some effort pried the old slave's mouth open, and 
 placed the stub of a corncob between his teeth. Just 
 as he was certain that Uncle Zeke could do nothing 
 but groan, he was startled at the report of Van- 
 tine's pistol and, leaping to the soldier's side, he 
 shouted :
 
 i88 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "You've got him at last. Did you hit him?" 
 
 Leonidas, from the shock caused by the shoot 
 ing, though the bullet did not hit him, staggered 
 from his position and leaned against Uncle Zeke's 
 cot. 
 
 Mobaly cracked his big leather whip, and, tak 
 ing one step nearer, placed his rough hand in the 
 collar of young Darwood's coat and started for 
 the back door, saying venomously: 
 
 "You killed the bear, did you? Well, you may 
 live among the bears before long." 
 
 Vantine followed closely behind with his hand 
 on his revolver, which was leveled at the back of 
 Leonidas. 
 
 Leonidas realized that he was powerless to re 
 sist successfully, and felt that much might be 
 gained by an apparently quiet submission to the 
 men who, for the present, at least, were masters of 
 the situation. It distressed him greatly to leave 
 Uncle Zeke in such a pitiful plight, and he glanced 
 over his shoulder for a parting look at his faithful 
 old friend as the three left the cabin. 
 
 The crescent moon was shining brightly. From 
 this fact Leonidas hoped for much, though he did 
 not quite know how or why; for if help came it 
 must be from an unexpected source. If an oppor 
 tunity were ever to present itself by which he might 
 escape he was determined to be on the alert to take 
 advantage of it. The men moved down the 
 driveway which led by Pompey's cabin until they 
 stood upon the spot where their scheme had been 
 devised in the hearing of Zeke. They paused for
 
 AN EXCITING NIGHT 189 
 
 an instant to consult as to the best route, and then 
 entered the woods on their way to the river. 
 
 The Elizabeth is not properly a river, but an es 
 tuary where the tide ebbs and floods twice in four 
 and twenty hours. In one direction it runs for five 
 hours, and in the other it requires seven hours to 
 spend its force; but, whether ebbing or flooding, it 
 rushes at the rate of a galloping steed. It was ebb 
 tide of some two hours and a half's duration when 
 Vantine and Mobaly reached the river with their 
 prisoner. This, with the strong wind coming from 
 the south, was a difficulty with which they had not 
 reckoned, and their progress was slow. 
 
 When their craft pointed its bow into the eddy 
 at Devil' s Reach it was swung around until its 
 wake formed a spiral of mathematical precision. 
 As the bow struck violently against a point of land 
 jutting out into the river, Mobaly remarked : 
 
 "This infernal place has got its right name. The 
 devil must be down at the bottom, stirring the 
 thing up, the way it's whirling. Confound the 
 place! I'm going to jump out of this. I wouldn't 
 make a good sea-dog. I'm a landlubber, I am. 
 Sooner be on dry land any time, or, come to that, 
 I'd rather be in the swamp than in this confounded 
 place." 
 
 He leaped upon the shore with the killock in his 
 hand, pulled the boat half out of the water, and 
 then beckoned Vantine to bring his man. In a short 
 while the three had left the boat, making their 
 way overland to the swamp, avoiding, as far as pos 
 sible, the lines of usual travel.
 
 190 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 When within a mile of the swamp limits, on en 
 tering a heavy skirt of gum timber, an unexpected 
 incident occurred. There was a rustling of the un 
 dergrowth, to which Mobaly and Vantine paid little 
 heed, except that they quickened their step and 
 commanded Leonidas to do likewise. He did not 
 protest, however, but he did not hurry. Mobaly 
 presently placed one hand on the arm of Leonidas 
 and with the other in the coat collar at the back of 
 his neck attempted to force him deeper into the 
 woods. For the first time since leaving Briarcrest 
 Leonidas found himself resisting the efforts of 
 his captors. He did not know why, but he was em 
 boldened by a presentiment that help was close at 
 hand. 
 
 "Wehr gaht doo? Shteh!" It was Ezra, who 
 thundered these words. As the bear trainer 
 emerged from the undergrowth he dealt Mobaly 
 a blow on the head which made him stagger for a 
 moment. Then he fell against a nearby tree, and 
 slid down its side until he lay in a heap upon the 
 ground. 
 
 Vantine, with soldierly instinct, was not sur 
 prised, and seemed ready for the attack. He lev 
 eled his pistol and fired. The ball struck Leonidas 
 in the side, and glancing off a rib bone passed 
 around it in an irregular course to the back, where 
 it emerged and buried itself in the tree just over 
 where Mobaly lay in a semi-conscious condition. 
 
 Leonidas made a desperate effort to stand, but 
 tottered from side to side and fell to the ground. 
 He lay in a recumbent position, supporting himself
 
 AN EXCITING NIGHT 191 
 
 with his left hand. Vantine, maddened by the frus 
 tration of their plans, advanced a step and took 
 deliberate aim at the region of his rival's heart. 
 
 "In Gots willen hargane ihm nicht!" screamed 
 Ezra, springing at Vantine before the pistol could 
 be discharged, grasping him by the arm and 
 wrenching the weapon from his hand. In the next 
 instant he had the soldier by the throat, dragging 
 him to where Leonidas lay. 
 
 "Shoot, mine frind!" he shouted passionately, as 
 he tightened his fingers about Vantine's throat 
 until it was with great difficulty that the soldier 
 could breathe. "Me kill shoot, mine frind mine 
 frind save mine life me kill you." 
 
 "Hold, Ezra, don't kill him," cried Leonidas. 
 "I'm not seriously injured. It's only a flesh 
 wound." 
 
 Leonidas was soon on his feet, though weak 
 from the wound, and stood at Ezra's side. The 
 bear trainer was in no mood to be merciful to Van- 
 tine, and Leonidas realized that the safety of his 
 assailant depended upon him. 
 
 "Me kill him him shoot mine frind," protested 
 Ezra. 
 
 "No, don't kill him," answered Leonidas, as he 
 placed his hand gently on Ezra's shoulder, "but 
 hold him until we have an understanding." 
 
 "Captain, whose innings now, yours or mine?" 
 
 Vantine, who had not yet fully recovered, made 
 a great effort to speak, but could not for a moment. 
 Finally he said, "It's yours I suppose, though 
 I did my best to kill you."
 
 192 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Captain Vantine, listen! You shot with the in 
 tention of killing me, and your aim was fairly good, 
 but a kind Providence has saved my life. My 
 friend, the Jew, has in an opportune moment ap 
 peared to thwart the purpose of Gabriel Arnold, 
 Jack Mobaly and yourself; and now you are again 
 at my mercy. If I should say the word, or should 
 I say nothing, you would soon be a dead man, for 
 you are powerless in the hands of Ezra, who is 
 ready to avenge my wound by your death." 
 
 Leonidas was here forced to pause and endeavor, 
 with the aid of Ezra, to stop the bleeding of the 
 wound. Ezra, meanwhile, was not unmindful of 
 Vantine, who dared not move. Presently Leonidas 
 went on : 
 
 "He means to kill you unless I interpose. This I 
 have done, and intend that you shall live, but I 
 must know your purpose for the future. Do you 
 intend to pursue me, and seek an undue advantage, 
 and also to be an annoyance to the young woman 
 who detests even to think of you ? If I could trust 
 you, and had your promise to change your course, 
 so far as my interests are concerned, I would ad 
 vise my friend to let you go. I have no desire to 
 harm you, but I am determined that you shall not 
 annoy me or Miss Proctor in the future." 
 
 "But but ," stammered Vantine. 
 
 "But what?" interrupted Leonidas. 
 
 "Wouldn't she at least respect me, if she were 
 permitted to do so?" 
 
 "She certainly has little respect for you," re 
 sponded Leonidas, "and I am sure she will have
 
 AN EXCITING NIGHT 193 
 
 less when she hears of this night's work, and knows 
 that I carry a wound made by a pistol in your 
 hands; and that I might now be dead, but for my 
 friend Ezra. If she has any respect for me how 
 could she have any for you, when she learns that 
 your purpose was to kill me ? If from this moment 
 you will never intentionally cross my path you shall 
 be free. You know what I wish, Captain. Do you 
 promise? Remember, if you break your promise, 
 and fall into the hands of this man again, I shall 
 not be responsible for the outcome. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 "Y e e e s," he answered, still hesitating 
 at relinquishing his hope. 
 
 Leonidas ceased speaking, and stood as if he 
 had forgotten his surroundings. His mind had gone 
 back to Uncle Zeke. He thought of his old friend, 
 and the suffering he must at that moment be en 
 during, if, indeed, he were still alive. Whether he 
 ever met Vantine again or not he felt that he must 
 hurry back to Briarcrest. 
 
 Though he was uncertain as to what disposition 
 should be made of Vantine, he was sure Mobaly 
 should be delivered to the police authorites, to an 
 swer again for the crime of arson. He began to 
 devise the best method of accomplishing this pur 
 pose, and suggested the course to Ezra. They 
 turned to where Mobaly had lain, and were sur 
 prised to find he was not there. During the fracas 
 with the soldier he had regained consciousness 
 and had crawled away into the undergrowth and 
 made good his escape.
 
 194 I N THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Ezra was now desperate to wreak vengeance 
 upon Vantine. "Big man gone, kill soldier," he 
 said as he tightened his grip on the officer's throat, 
 "Him shoot mine frind. Kill him." 
 
 "Captain Vantine, you see how determined Ezra 
 is, and what would happen if I should withdraw my 
 protest," said Leonidas, taking advantage of Ezra's 
 outburst. "You are perfectly helpless. Will you 
 promise to go, and that for good ?" 
 
 Vantine, who could not speak without difficulty 
 on account of Ezra's hold, answered: "There is 
 nothing I can do but go. If you wish it, I'll go." 
 
 "Will you do as I request?" persisted Leonidas. 
 "You know what I mean. Do you promise?" 
 
 "I promise," he gasped, as the tightening of the 
 Jew's grip changed the color of his face. 
 
 "Will you cease your attentions to Miss Proc 
 tor?" demanded Leonidas. 
 
 "Yes;" this monosyllable was all he had breath 
 to utter. 
 
 Ezra relaxed his grip, and Vantine, weak and 
 limp, staggered off through the woods, and was 
 soon out of sight. Ezra dressed the wound of 
 Leonidas with necessaries from his cavernous 
 pockets and stopped the flow of blood entirely. Ex 
 cept for weakness, it now gave him no inconveni 
 ence whatever. Leonidas, taking Ezra by the arm, 
 directed the way back to the boat over the same 
 route he had recently been led. 
 
 The wind was still blowing briskly and the ebb 
 tide was running when they reached the shore. 
 They launched the boat and were soon in the chan-
 
 AN EXCITING NIGHT 195 
 
 nel of the river. Everything being favorable, they 
 glided swiftly down the stream. To accelerate 
 their progress Ezra improvised a mutton-leg sail 
 out of his long garment and spritted it out before 
 the wind. In a short time they landed, and soon 
 entered the pine woods at Briarcrest from the east 
 side of the farm. 
 
 The moon was shining as brightly as when they 
 had left Zeke's cabin, and things could be dis 
 tinctly seen even in the shadow of the pines. As 
 they stepped into the path that crosses the branch, 
 through which Leonidas had gone before, he in 
 stinctively looked toward the pine tree under which 
 he had found the French medal. He paused, and 
 directed Ezra to look. He wondered if it were pos 
 sible for him to be mistaken. Was he being de 
 ceived by his own eyes? or was his wound pro 
 ducing delirium? He grasped Ezra tightly by the 
 arm, again directing his attention. 
 
 A figure clad in white walked up and down the 
 branch for a distance of ten feet or more; then 
 came up from the stream, and sat beneath the pine 
 of varied associations and bent his head dejectedly 
 into his hands. 
 
 "No, I don't believe in ghosts," said Leonidas, 
 half audibly; "but that's what Uncle Zeke saw 
 several times since the day of the eclipse. What 
 can it mean? No, I don't believe in ghosts." He 
 hurried away from the path, through the pines, with 
 Ezra following closely behind, with the air of a man 
 whom nothing that he might see now would sur 
 prise.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 ZEKE'S SECRET REVEALED 
 
 LEONIDAS and Ezra were not long in reaching 
 Zeke's cabin. When near the back door they dis 
 covered that some one besides Uncle Zeke was on 
 the inside. 
 
 "Who can it be?" asked Leonidas of Ezra, as 
 he approached cautiously, pausing to listen. 
 
 "Nigger talk," replied Ezra, as he moved near to 
 where Leonidas stood at the door. 
 
 "Why, Aunt Dinah's got home and she's strug 
 gling over Uncle Zeke," said Leonidas, softly. 
 
 To prevent alarm, Leonidas rapped his ac 
 customed signal on the door and stepped into the 
 room where Uncle Zeke still lay in a heap in the 
 corner. He beckoned to Ezra to follow him. 
 
 By the aid of the light on the hearth they were 
 only a moment in removing the cob from the old 
 man's mouth and also the rope from his knees and 
 hands. They then placed their hands beneath his 
 body and tenderly laid him upon the cot. He had 
 lain for some time before he fully realized who the 
 men were, though he felt that one was Leonidas 
 and that he was safe, for he had recognized the 
 raps on the door. 
 
 Uncle Zeke looked about the room for a few 
 minutes, and at last his eyes rested eloquently on
 
 ZEKE'S SECRET REVEALED 197 
 
 Dinah, who stood weeping. He then gazed steadily 
 at Ezra, and recognized him, and finally turned his 
 eyes toward Leonidas, whom he took by the hand. 
 With some effort he raised it to the side of his 
 face, patting it feebly, then drawing it to his lips 
 he kissed it again and again. He raised his eyes, 
 and looked steadily into< Leonidas's face with an 
 expression which indicated that he wished to speak. 
 As young Darwood bent over the old man he 
 raised his arms and clasped them about the young 
 man's neck, and, drawing his head down, he kissed 
 him several times on the forehead. 
 
 "Mars Lonny, Fs glad ter see yer," he said 
 slowly and weakly. "Yes, Zeke's mighty glad ter 
 see yer. I wus mighty fyard dat dem weeked men 
 was gwine ter kill yer. Yes, Mars Lonny, I was 
 mighty fyard. How'd yer git back, Mars Lonny? 
 De good Marster up dar muster heped yer. Tell 
 Zeke 'bout how yer got back." 
 
 Putting his hand on Ezra's head, letting it slip 
 down to his shoulder, and patting him several times, 
 Leonidas said: "My friend came just in the nick 
 of time to save me from those wretches. That 
 soldier-man shot me once in the side, and had good 
 aim on my heart, and was just about to fire, when 
 my friend Ezra interfered and saved my life. You 
 see, I have had a narrow escape, and I must thank 
 God for saving my life. I'm glad we were able to 
 come back in time to relieve you. Of course, there 
 is a Providence in it all." 
 
 "Yer's cum back, Mars Lonny, an' I's glad ter 
 see yer. Yes, I's mighty glad ter see yer." 
 
 14
 
 198 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Leonidas observed a hesitancy about his words, 
 and a suspicious thickening of his voice which por 
 tended a serious condition. As his voice faltered 
 it was not difficult to observe a change in the old 
 man's countenance. 
 
 "Uncle Zeke," said Leonidas, tenderly, "you are 
 weak from pain and cruel usage. Suppose you let 
 me talk, and you listen. Is there nothing I may do 
 for you ?" 
 
 He stepped to the side of the fireplace, took a 
 gourd-dipper, filling it from the bucket in the cor 
 ner, and hurried to Uncle Zeke. Placing his hand 
 beneath Zeke's head he raised him to an upright po 
 sition and put the water to his lips. 
 
 "I feels better now, Mars Lonny; I feels better, 
 but I's mighty weak lak." 
 
 "Don't talk any more, Uncle Zeke; let me talk, 
 and you can tell me what you want to say when 
 you can sit up, which I trust will be before very 
 long. Ezra, Aunt Dinah and I will be the nurses, 
 and you the patient ; and I am sure you will soon be 
 well." 
 
 "Yer's er mighty good nuss, Mars Lonny," said 
 Zeke, with pathos in his voice, "but yer han' ain't 
 sof an' nice, right lak it uster be. It wus sof ' right 
 lak Missis Mel's befoe yer went ter de Creek. What 
 yer bin doin', Mars Lonny, wid yer han's?" 
 
 The old man lifted Leonidas's hand again, and 
 pressed it to his lips. "What's de matter wid yer 
 han's, Mars Lonny? Da hain't sof an' nice now." 
 
 The old man's eyes suddenly became dim, and 
 though he could see the three who stood by his
 
 ZEKE'S SECRET REVEALED 199 
 
 bed he could not distinguish them. He wished 
 now to be assured that Leonidas, whom he loved so 
 dearly, was really by his side; and that the hand 
 that seemed so changed was that of his friend. 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Zeke, it is I, your friend," said 
 Leonidas, softly. 
 
 "I knows it's yer now, Mars Lonny," said Zeke, 
 feebly. "I knows dat sweet voice. It allus sounded 
 lak de angils ter ole Zeke. I kain't see yer, but I 
 knows 'tis yer, kaise Zeke kin tell yer voice; but 
 Mars Lonny, what's de matter wid yer han' ? Taint 
 lak it uster be." 
 
 "I've been at work in the swamp for Dr. Dems- 
 ter, and that accounts for the change in my hands. 
 Before I left home I never had hard work to do, 
 and my hands were soft and white; but now things 
 have changed and I have to work, but I am happy 
 in it, and all will some day be explained." 
 
 "It am Mars Lonny," said Zeke, falteringly. "I 
 knows 'tis Mars Lonny. Dat's right lak Mars Lon- 
 ny's talk." 
 
 "Now don't talk any more, Uncle Zeke. Just 
 you rest, and we'll wait until you are stronger." 
 
 "Zeke mus' talk , Mars Lonny, kaise I's 
 got sumthin' fur ter tell yer. I's gwine 
 ter die soon , an', Mars Lonny , yer mus' 
 know what's in Zeke's mine , an' what's 
 wurrid him sence de 'Dark Day.' Now, 
 Mars Lonny let Zeke talk while he kin." 
 
 The old man's voice became stronger, and he 
 spoke with more animation, as he delivered himself 
 of the prophecy.
 
 zoo IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "You'll not die yet awhile, Uncle Zeke, and I can 
 wait until you are stronger to hear what you have 
 to tell me. I'm sure it is important, but you can 
 wait until you are more able to talk." 
 
 "Zeke hain't gwine ter git better, Mars Lonny. 
 I's dyin' now, Mars Lonny," he answered, as his 
 voice again faltered; "Zeke's dyin' now." 
 
 "O, I trust not, Uncle Zeke," Leonidas answered, 
 slowly, but, in spite of his desire to think otherwise, 
 fearing it might be true. 
 
 His hope of Uncle Zeke's recovery was dispelled 
 when the old man looked steadily at him for a mo 
 ment without speaking, and then finally said, 
 "Mars Lonny, I knows it's yer, but Zeke kain't see 
 yer." 
 
 The tears broke over the eyelids of Leonidas, 
 and ran down his face, dropping on Uncle Zeke's 
 hand. 
 
 He tried to speak, but his words choked him at 
 first. Finally he bent over Uncle Zeke, smoothing 
 his brow, and asked with difficulty : 
 
 "Can't you see anything, Uncle Zeke? Can't 
 you see Ezra and Aunt Dinah? They are both 
 here." 
 
 "Whar's Dinah?" 
 
 Leonidas beckoned, and Aunt Dinah moved to 
 the bedside. She placed her hand on the old man's 
 forehead and said simply, "Zeke," and then broke 
 into a flood of tears, unable to say anything more. 
 
 "Dat's my Dinah, but I kain't see hur," said the 
 dying man, sadly. 
 
 Aunt Dinah, overcome by sorrow, dropped on
 
 ZEKE'S SECRET REVEALED 201 
 
 the short pine log and sobbed as if her heart would 
 break. 
 
 "Can't you see anything?" inquired Leonidas. 
 
 "Yes, Mars Lonny; Zeke can see, but he kain't 
 see yer nor Dinah," answered the old man, slowly. 
 
 "What, then, do you see?" asked Leonidas, the 
 tears coursing down his face, as he looked into his 
 friend's eyes. He felt that they had looked for the 
 last time on earthly things, for earthly things they 
 could not see. 
 
 "I see Pompey, an' de dogs hain't arter 'im no 
 moe," said Zeke, "an' Mars Gabel hain't beetin' 
 'im nuther. I hyars Pompey say, 'Cum on, Zeke, 
 dis am a good place.' Don't yer see 'im, an' hyar 
 'im too, Mars Lonny? Dar he am. Don't yer see 
 'im?" 
 
 "Do you see anyone else besides Pompey?" 
 
 "Yes, dar stans leetle Zeke," said the old man, 
 joyfully. "My leetle Zeke. Dinah nam' 'im arter 
 me er long time ago. Mars Gabel sol' leetle Zeke 
 ter de traders, ter be tuck down ter Alabam. It 
 wus when de leetle thing wus jes a nussin' baby. 
 An' da snach 'im frum Dinah when he wus er cryin' 
 fit ter break his heart, an' da tuck 'im away, an' I 
 hain't seed 'im sence. No, I hain't seed 'im sence, 
 til now; but dar he am jam by Pompey. Mars 
 Lonny, Mars Lonny, he's hol'n out his hans fur 
 me right lak dis." 
 
 The old man made an effort to hold his hands in 
 the direction of what he seemed to see, but his 
 strength soon failed him, and they dropped help 
 less at his side.
 
 2O2 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Do you see anybody else?" 
 
 "I sees lots ob folks, Mars Lonny, but I don't 
 know who da am. No, Zeke don't know who da am, 
 but I hyars de sweetes' music dat I eber hyard in all 
 my life. Un minit ob dat am better'n all de music 
 Zeke eber hyard befoe. Da hain't got no banjos an' 
 fiddles up dar. It's better'n dat. Da am sing-in' 
 too. Don't yer hyar um?" 
 
 "What do they sing, Uncle Zeke?" 
 
 "Listen, an' yer hyar um, Mars Lonny," said 
 Zeke, his voice growing weaker, "da sing 'bout 
 Mosis an' de Lam'." 
 
 The old man paused, and remained quiet for 
 some time. He turned his head toward Leonidas 
 and raised it from the cot, and felt around as 
 if in search of something, and when his hand met 
 that of Leonidas he seemed content. 
 
 "Take Zeke's han, Mars Lonny. Zeke's dyin'. 
 My feet am col', right lak da wus in de worter ob a 
 col' ribber. Hain't Zeke dyin', Mars Lonny?" 
 
 "O, I'm afraid so, Uncle Zeke," answered Leoni 
 das, "but you are not frightened?" 
 
 "I hain't fyard, Mars Lonny, no, Zeke hain't 
 fyard. He'll soon be dar wid Pompey an' leetle 
 Zeke. I hates ter lebe yer, Mars Lonny, but it 
 looks mighty nice ober dar. No, Zeke hain't 
 scyard. He wants ter go, an' " 
 
 He hesitated, and there seemed to be a change 
 in his train of thought, for he said : "But befoe I 
 kin go dar I's got sumthin' fur ter tell yer, Mars 
 Lonny. No, Zeke kain't die till he tells yer dat 
 De Good Man wouldn't let Zeke go whar Pompey
 
 ZEKE'S SECRET REVEALED 203 
 
 an' leetle Zeke am till he tol' sumbody, an' I don't 
 want nobody ter know 'ceps yer, Mars Lonny. 
 Zeke kain't die till he tells yer dat, an' nobody 
 kain't hear it ceps yerself. Whar's Ezri? It don't 
 matter 'bout Dinah. Sense Mars Gabel struck hur 
 on de head she hain't nebber hyard sense." 
 
 Leonidas bade Ezra leave the room and remain 
 within calling distance until he should again be 
 needed. 
 
 "Ezra is gone now," said Leonidas; "are you 
 strong enough to tell me what you wish me to 
 know?" 
 
 "I mus' tell yer , Mars Lonny, befoe I 
 kin go whar dat music am," said Uncle 
 Zeke, and his voice showed great exhaustion as he 
 tried to put his words together. "Set down, Mars 
 Lonny, when I tells yer. Is dis Mars Lonny 
 Darwood what uster cum ter Zeke's 
 cabin? Sho'? Yes, 'tis Mars Lonny. Yer rec- 
 umlect dat I tol' yer dat Mars Gabel Ar 
 nold wits er mighty bad man. Well now 
 I's gwine fur ter tell yer befoe 
 I dies, 'bout how bad Mars Gabel am. Un 
 da Mars Gabel wus down in de pine woods, an' I 
 wus down dar, an' Mars Gabel didn't see me. I 
 was settin' down jam by de holler tree, an' Mars 
 Gabel wus standin' jam by er big pine tree by de 
 branch dat runs through de farm, an he had er big 
 hickry stick in his han'. When Mars Gabel 
 wus stanin' lookin' round, dar wus er man 
 cum up de paf frum de Gosport road. He 
 cums up an' speaks ter Mars Gabel an' Mars
 
 2O4 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Gabel sez, 'Yer'se dat Frenchmun what's lately cum 
 ober.' He sez, 'Yes, I's a Frenchmun, but kain't 
 yer show me de way out'n dis woods?' He had 
 sum munny in his han' an' Mars Gabel seed it. Da 
 didn't hab many words, but Mars Gabel looked 
 round ter see dat nobody wus jam by, an' den he 
 tuck dat hickry club, and hit de man on de head. 
 He run down de branch, an' Mars Gabel run arter 
 'im an' hit 'im on de head ergin. He run up an' 
 down de branch three or foe times, an' den he run 
 out'n de branch, an' under de pine tree ergin Mars 
 Gabel arter 'im all de time. When da got up ter de 
 pine tree ergin, da tussled right smart, an' de poor 
 man's head wus er bleedin', an' de blood went all 
 ober Mars Gabel's close. Mars Gabel got loose an' 
 hit de man ergin wid de hickry, an' de man fell 
 down under de big pine tree, an' I hyard 'im groan." 
 Zeke paused here, partly to recover his breath 
 and partly to shudder at the fearful memory. "I's 
 nebber gwine ter furgit dat man's groan. Den he 
 said sum words. He said, 'What will de Emprer 
 think? de 'Federacy de 'Federacy.' An' den he 
 sed, My poe wife,' and den he didn't say no moe. 
 He didn't talk plain lak dat, but I know'd what he 
 sed. Dat man muster ben sumbody great, kaise he 
 had lots ob munny, an' he had on his brest er big 
 shiny thing, right lak er badge, an' it shin'd right 
 lak gol'. Mars Gabel sed, 'Now yer'se ded,' an' he 
 search his pockits, an' tuck all de munny he had, 
 an' he tuck frum his pockit er piece ob paper, an' 
 sed, 'Shux, I kain't read dat dat's French, an' he 
 tuck de paper an' stuck it in de holler ob er big gum
 
 ZEKE'S SECRET REVEALED 205 
 
 tree, jam by de pine whar he hit de man. I don't 
 know why he didn't tare dat piece ob paper up, but 
 he didn't. He put it in de gum tree right lak I tells 
 yer. I furgot ter tell yer dat Mars Gabel killed dat 
 man on de 'Dark Day' de day yer sez wus de 
 'clipse. I don't know 'bout dat, but it wus er 
 mighty 'Dark Day/ an' Zeke hain't seed no peace 
 sense. But now I feels better sence I tol' yer, 
 Mars Lonny." 
 
 "What did Arnold do with the man's body, 
 Uncle Zeke?" 
 
 "I don't know, Mars Lonny; deed I don't," said 
 Uncle Zeke. "He drug 'im down ter de edge ob 
 de branch lak, an' when he wus out'n sight I hur 
 ried back ter de cabin, an' I wus mighty glad when 
 I got hyar." 
 
 "Did Mr. Arnold see you in the woods that 
 day?" asked Leonidas. 
 
 "Yes, he seed me when he drug de man down 
 jam by de branch, an' he tol' me ef I eber tell he 
 would kill me too; but yer know Mars Gabel hain't 
 treated me lak he uster, sence de 'Dark Day.' 
 Mars Lonny yer knows dars er ghost in 
 dat woods. Did yer eber see dat ghost ?" 
 
 The old man had told his secret, and now his 
 voice faltered, and his breath came faster and 
 faster. He raised his hand again toward Leonidas, 
 and said, "Mars Lonny, take ol' Zeke by dis han' 
 an' gib Dinah de udder. I's in de ribber, but I 
 hyard sweet m-u-s-i-c, an' I sees Pompey an' leetle 
 Zeke. I's in de col' worter, but de udder side am 
 mighty bright, Mars Lonny."
 
 2o6 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Uncle Zeke's voice was now but a whisper, 
 though it was evident that he had not yet said the 
 last word. With renewed strength he sat upright, 
 and stretched both arms out toward the foot of the 
 cot. Leonidas put his ear to his lips to hear what 
 he was sure would be his last words. 
 
 "Mars Lonny Missis Bel lobes yer. Marry 
 Missis Bel; an' Mars Lonny when yer an' 
 Missis Bel gits married, gits m-a-r-r-i-e-d " 
 
 There was a rattling sound in the old man's 
 throat, and he seemed for the moment to be gone, 
 but he rallied slightly, only to finish the sentence: 
 
 "Take take take cyar ob ob ob Di 
 nah." 
 
 And Uncle Zeke was dead. In death, as in life, 
 his thought was for the welfare of those he loved.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 % 
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 
 
 THE next day at three o'clock Leonidas and Isa 
 bel met at the gum log in the pine woods, as they 
 had planned. The death of Uncle Zeke was so sad an 
 event for each of them that they could say little, 
 except to express their grief at the loss of their 
 friend. The day following they laid the faith 
 ful old slave to rest under the scuppernong arbor, 
 where Isabel had sat when Uncle Zeke delivered 
 the letter from Leonidas. There were only a few 
 present, and Gabriel Arnold was reported by Isabel 
 to be so unsettled in mind that he had not been in 
 formed of Uncle Zeke's death. She said little 
 about her uncle, and assumed responsibility for the 
 funeral arrangements. 
 
 After carefully putting the last sward on the 
 grave, and when all were gone but themselves, Le 
 onidas and Isabel planted a sprig of weeping wil 
 low at the old man's head. They then turned and 
 walked slowly away in silence toward the sycamore 
 lane, each tearful over the loss of the gentle, kindly 
 old man. 
 
 "What shall I do, Leonidas?" said Isabel, at 
 last. "Uncle Zeke is gone , my Uncle Gabriel is be 
 side himself, Aunt Betty stupid and morose and 
 poor Dinah, heartbroken! What shall I do?"
 
 208 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Isabel, dearest, you still have me, for I am 
 yours," he answered, taking both of her hands into 
 one of his, and with the other smoothing her brow. 
 "You still have me and we'll be happy." 
 
 They had now entered the pines, and stood near 
 the place of their meeting of the day before. 
 
 "No, Leonidas, no; you must not think of it. I 
 can never be yours, more than I am now." 
 
 "Why, Isabel!" he exclaimed in amazement, 
 "why do you say that? I know you're mine, but, 
 dearest, you will be more so when I take you to my 
 breast and we are pronounced one." 
 
 "That can never be," said Isabel, looking into his 
 eyes ; she then dropped her head upon his shoulder 
 and began to weep. "That can never be." 
 
 "Why why Isabel? I ask, why?" questioned 
 Leonidas, anxiously. 
 
 "My uncle, my uncle," wailed Isabel, as she 
 dropped on the gum log and hid her face in her 
 hands, sobbing pitifully. After a few minutes she 
 raised her head, and, looking through her tears, 
 said, "You musn't think of it again. It is impossi 
 ble." 
 
 "It can and it shall be. I thought we understood 
 it all. I thought we had settled that part of it here 
 just the other day. Why do you raise the question 
 about your uncle again?" 
 
 "If you knew it all, Leonidas, you would not feel 
 as you do now. You must not be embarrassed by 
 my uncle's wicked life, and and me." 
 
 "Isabel," said Leonidas, as he took a place by her 
 side, "I know more about your Uncle Gabriel now
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 209 
 
 than I did when I first told you that I loved you." 
 
 "And still do you love me, and wish me to be 
 yours?" she asked, fearing she knew only in part 
 how far his knowledge went. 
 
 "Isabel, listen to me. I love you, and you shall 
 be mine. I love you for what you are, and, it does 
 not matter what your uncle proves to be, I shall 
 still love you even if " 
 
 "If he should be guilty of some heinous crime?" 
 interrupted Isabel, catching Leonidas by the arm. 
 
 "Yes, no matter what," he answered, with em 
 phasis. "It would be no fault of yours, and you 
 should in no sense be blamed for what he has done. 
 Dearest Isabel, it will not change my love for you, 
 or my purpose concerning you. Hear me, you 
 shall be mine. Yes, you are mine, now. Are you 
 not, Isabel? Tell me." 
 
 "Should you not wait until you know more about 
 my uncle?" asked Isabel, "and more about me?" 
 
 "I know it now," answered Leonidas, not seem 
 ing to notice Isabel's personal allusion. "I know 
 he has been wicked, and is now deranged on ac 
 count of his sinful life. I do not wish to know 
 more about your uncle, but I must know that you 
 will not allow his wickedness to influence you in the 
 matter that is so vital to me. Won't yon promise 
 me?" 
 
 "Wait until you come to Briarcrest again," an 
 swered Isabel. "We both may know more then. 
 I am now concerned about Uncle Gabriel, and do 
 not know what to do with him. He does not yet 
 know that Uncle Zeke is dead."
 
 2io IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Dr. Demster is needed," said Leonidas, "and 
 I will hurry to the Creek to fetch him. A consul 
 tation may be necessary, and this may result in a 
 decision to commit him to the asylum for the in 
 sane. I think this would be the proper disposition 
 of his case. Once in the asylum he would be se 
 cure, and you would be relieved of much anxiety. 
 I will have Dr. Demster here to-morrow. Isabel, 
 dearest, be brave," said Leonidas, embracing her 
 tenderly. "Trust me. I'll be back to-morrow. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 Isabel hurried back to the house to make the best 
 of a bad situation for another night and a day, and 
 Leonidas was off for Deep Creek, over the way 
 he had chosen to go the first time. 
 
 That evening, about dusk, Leonidas stood at Dr. 
 Demster's office door. He was just about to rap, 
 when he hesitated to interrupt the soliloquy of some 
 one in the room. An instant revealed it to be the 
 old physician himself, for his long-drawn words 
 and his nasal twang were familiar to all who knew 
 him. His was one of those peculiar voices that if 
 heard once is never forgotten. Leonidas was 
 certain he was not mistaken, and paused that the 
 doctor might become silent before he entered. 
 
 "This is my will," the voice went on. "I am 
 going to leave it all to him. Yes, every bit of it, 
 and nobody else shall have any of it. Demster's 
 got no other friend, and has not wanted any other 
 since he came into my life. How true and manly 
 he's been ! Yes, all I've got shall be his. When he 
 comes again I'll show him where some of it is.
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 211 
 
 The poor boy may need something before I die, 
 and he shall have it. Did I say die? Yes, die; for 
 I am weary of life. I wonder what would be the fate 
 of a miserable old man who died by his own hands ? 
 How easy it would be! When the provisions of 
 this will are known I don't care to live longer. 
 Hello! Who's that?" 
 
 Leonidas rapped on the office door, then entered, 
 and found Dr. Demster sitting with his elbows on 
 the table, and his head supported by his hands. A 
 document was spread out before him and he made 
 no effort to conceal it. 
 
 "It's you, Lonny, my boy," said the doctor, 
 gladly. "I've been wishing you'd come. I've been 
 thinking about you, and talking about you, too. It's 
 always been to myself, and not to others, that I've 
 talked when I thought about you. They tell me 
 " when an old man talks to himself he's talking to 
 the devil, but I don't believe that. I know it's not 
 true when I've talked about you. The subject's 
 too good." 
 
 "I fear the devil thinks about me a great deal, 
 Doctor. Indeed, he seems to pursue me persist 
 ently, and every once in a while I have a hand-to- 
 hand struggle with him. He seems to be my ad 
 versary, and attempts frequently to hedge up my 
 way." 
 
 "You must have come into contact with old Ga 
 briel Arnold," said the doctor, knowingly. "He's 
 more like the devil than anybody else in Tide 
 water. But I told you to look out for him. Have 
 you ever encountered him?"
 
 212 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "No, not personally," said Leonidas, slowly, 
 "but I've come into contact with Captain Vantine, 
 and he is very nearly as bad as Gabriel Arnold." 
 
 "Captain Vantine! Why, what's he done?" de 
 manded the doctor. 
 
 "Shot me here," said Leonidas, pointing to his 
 side. "It's not much of a wound, but he intended 
 to kill me. He was ready to fire a second time, 
 and would have done so, but my friend Ezra was 
 sent by Providence just in time to prevent him. 
 But, Doctor, you don't believe in the doctrine of 
 Providence, and I should not have introduced it 
 here." 
 
 The old man arose and insisted upon examining 
 the wound, which he pronounced well cared for 
 and of slight significance. He put his arms about 
 the neck of Leonidas, and hugged him tightly. 
 Then releasing his hold he said earnestly, with tears 
 in his eyes: 
 
 "I do believe in Providence, my boy. I didn't 
 once. I didn't before you came into my life. I ac 
 cept what you believe. It must be true or you 
 would not believe it. Teach me, my boy. You 
 know about such things better than I do. My life 
 has been spent considering hard things, and I have 
 wasted much time trying to doubt, and you don't 
 know how difficult it would be for me to find the 
 right way. But your Bible speaks about a little 
 child leading older people. Now, I want you to 
 be my teacher and lead me out of this fog. I can't 
 live long, and I know your chances are better than 
 mine. I would so much like to have your faith.
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 213 
 
 Lonny, my boy; you'll tell me about that, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "O, it will be a pleasure to me, Doctor." 
 
 "Then I am content," said the doctor, taking 
 his seat again, and inviting Leonidas to sit down 
 by his side. 
 
 "This is for you," said the doctor, pointing to 
 the document on the table. "This is why I have 
 been wishing you would come. It is my will. I've 
 just written it, and have mentioned you by name. 
 All I have will be yours in time. If Annie had only 
 lived; my Annie! Well, she sickened and died. All 
 I have shall be yours. Some of it you can't get 
 until I die, but some of it you will need before. 
 Come with me and I will show you." 
 
 The doctor arose and walked slowly to the 
 northeast corner of the room to the box that con 
 tained Pompey's bones, and took from it an iron 
 rod, sharpened at one end. 
 
 "This will tell us where it is," he said, as he 
 started for the door, and beckoned Leonidas to fol 
 low. 
 
 As they passed through the kitchen, the doctor 
 took a lantern that was hanging to an exposed 
 beam and, without lighting, handed it to Leonidas, 
 saying, "This may be of use to us before we re 
 turn." The two passed out of the door, entering 
 the path that led in the direction of the creek. 
 
 They felt their way, in the darkness, around the 
 edge of the water until they came to the willow 
 tree under which Dr. Demster was wont to spend 
 much time in reverie. f 
 
 15
 
 214 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "It is not far from here, through the thicket 
 yonder," said the doctor. "That's where I want 
 you to go with me. I'll lead the way and you 
 follow." 
 
 They came to a thick growth of muscadine, 
 back of which was a dense thicket. The doctor 
 pushed back the undergrowth with the rod, then 
 bent upon hands and knees, crawling through the 
 path, with Leonidas following closely behind him. 
 After creeping for a hundred yards or more they 
 came to a small clearing in the midst of which 
 stood a medium-sized beech tree. 
 
 "This is the place. We'll stop here," said the 
 doctor. "Light the lantern. We shall need it 
 now." 
 
 Leonidas did as the doctor said, and watched to 
 see what was next to be done. It was not clear to 
 him just why he had been brought to this lonely 
 spot. He called to mind that part in the soliloquy 
 wherein the doctor had expressed himself as being 
 weary of life, and wondered if this were where he 
 wished to be buried. 
 
 "Why why, Doctor!" exclaimed Leonidas, 
 tremblingly. 
 
 "This is the place, my boy, and this will tell why 
 we came and what I want you to know," said the 
 doctor, as he took the iron rod and stuck it in the 
 ground not more than three feet from the body of 
 the tree. "Take this, and run it down here." 
 
 Leonidas took the rod and put his weight upon it, 
 forcing it into the ground, until it stopped suddenly 
 against a hard substance.
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 215 
 
 "Have you hit it?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "Yes, Doctor," said Leonidas; "but what is it? 
 The rod can go no farther." 
 
 "Then I struck the spot the first time," said the 
 doctor, with satisfaction. "What you feel is the 
 top of an iron pot. I buried it here when the war 
 began. It is filled with gold, but I do not know 
 just how much it contains. There are several 
 thousand dollars though, I'm sure. The banks 
 are insecure, and the safest place for money is in 
 the ground in a good quiet place like this. This is 
 why I put it here." 
 
 The old man paused, as if to listen, then putting 
 his lips to Leonidas's ear he said: "This is for 
 you when you need it. Come here some night like 
 this one, and dig it up. Besides this, all I have will 
 be yours in time." 
 
 "O, Doctor, do you mean it?" asked Leonidas, 
 overcome by such fortune. "How could you give 
 me all you have? I'm not even related to you, but 
 only a friend. How can you do it!" 
 
 ' "You're not my relative," said the doctor, "but 
 you're more. You are my friend. Yes, you, in a 
 sense, are my saviour. You have come into my old 
 age, when I was so sad and lonely. You have saved 
 me from doubt and wickedness; and all I have is 
 yours. Do as I bid you with it. All I ask is that 
 when you and Isabel are married, which I trust 
 will be very soon, you will let me come and visit 
 you once in a while, to see how happy you are. I 
 can then fancy how my Annie and I would have 
 been had she lived to sweeten my life."
 
 216 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 The doctor and Leonidas retraced their steps 
 and were soon again in the office. 
 
 The young man was lost in wonder at the sud 
 den turn in his affairs, for up to this time he had 
 not been earning much more than enough to meet 
 the expenses of a scant living at Audierne. Now 
 abundance was in sight, and he found it difficult 
 to realize that it was true. But here before his 
 eyes were the provisions of Dr. Demster's will, 
 which committed the whole of his large fortune to 
 him. 
 
 The old physician saw the young man's surprise 
 was so great that it was not easy to adjust himself 
 to the new and changed conditions. 
 
 "Where did you come from, Leonidas, and what 
 did you want?" 
 
 "I came from Briarcrest, Doctor, and must tell 
 you that things there are in a pitiful plight. The 
 old slave, Zeke, is dead and buried ; and Mr. Arnold 
 is mad sometimes morose, and at other times rav 
 ing. I wish you would go to-morrow and see what 
 is best to be done. Some steps will have to be taken 
 or Isabel will be prostrated with worry. Will you 
 go to-morrow, Doctor?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll go," said the doctor, "and relieve the 
 situation as far as possible. But have you learned 
 what the trouble is with old Gabe Arnold? You 
 know what my suspicions have been, and my mind 
 has not changed concerning him. I believe that 
 he has committed some awful crime that has been 
 preying on his mind until his brain has given away 
 under the strain. And, do you know, I am inclined
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 217 
 
 to believe that when all the facts about Gabe Ar 
 nold's trouble are known, the mystery that sur 
 rounds Count de Bussy's death will be un 
 raveled." 
 
 "Your reasoning is correct, Doctor," said Leoni- 
 das. "I have all the facts necessary to show the 
 truth of your conclusion. Uncle Zeke, when dying, 
 told me the whole story, and it is just as you sup 
 pose. The very worst is true. Mr. Arnold mur 
 dered the Count on the spot where I found the 
 medal, and murdered him, too, to obtain a few 
 paltry dollars ; for he robbed his pockets as soon as 
 he was dead. But there is one part of Zeke's story 
 I wish to verify." 
 
 "What?" exclaimed the doctor, his interest at 
 fever heat. 
 
 "Uncle Zeke said that Mr. Arnold, in searching 
 the Count's dead body, found a paper, and that he 
 said it was written in French, but instead of tear 
 ing it up, as almost anybody would have done, he 
 put it into a hollow tree. I wish to find that paper 
 if I can." 
 
 "Then the old negro must have seen the crime 
 committed," said the doctor, in astonishment. 
 "Was he in any way implicated ?" 
 
 "Not in the least. He was simply in the woods, 
 and his master did not observe him until it was all 
 over." 
 
 "This, then, is the reason why old Zeke has had 
 such a grip on Gabe Arnold," said the doctor. 
 "And then to think of it! he has been carrying 
 that dreadful secret all these weeks. You are quite
 
 218 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 right about that paper. It will verify old Zeke's 
 story, and it will probably throw some light upon 
 the Count's business that some of us would like to 
 have. Get that paper by all means, Leonidas." 
 
 "Doctor, what is the best disposition to make of 
 Mr. Arnold," asked Leonidas, "assuming that he 
 was responsible for the death of Count de Bussy?" 
 
 "The only disposition now is to send him to Wil- 
 liamsburg. No one knows of the crime but you 
 and me; and it is not worth while to embarrass 
 what few friends he has and to bring disgrace 
 upon his innocent niece. He will probably not live 
 long anyway; so the best place for him is the asy 
 lum and we will hurry him off as soon as pos 
 sible." 
 
 "I share your opinion," said Leonidas, eagerly. 
 "I have thought, in view of all the circumstances, 
 that this would be proper. If he were sane, and 
 simply trying to conceal his crime, I should not 
 carry his secret a day longer, but as it now stands 
 I am willing to do as you suggest in the matter." 
 
 "Would you tell it and marry Isabel, too?" asked 
 the doctor, curiously. 
 
 "Yes, I would tell it, and marry Isabel, with all 
 the opprobrium it might bring. She is not re 
 sponsible for her wicked uncle, and should not be 
 compelled to suffer unnecessarily on his account. 
 The poor girl has already had more sorrow than 
 enough, and she will not suffer when her uncle is 
 committed to the asylum." 
 
 "You're a true man," said the doctor, "and I 
 think the more of you for the position you take.
 
 DR. DEMSTER'S WILL 219 
 
 Not every man would like to take to himself the 
 niece of a man who has been executed as a common 
 murderer." 
 
 "I would, when that niece is Isabel Proctor, Doc 
 tor," said Leonidas, and his voice and form seemed 
 majestic as he spoke the words. 
 
 "That will do," answered the doctor, patting Le 
 onidas on the shoulder, "I will go to Briarcrest to 
 morrow and you shall go with me."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 THE HOLLOW TREE 
 
 THE next day, just as the sun was sinking behind 
 the juniper and the cypress trees of the Great 
 Swamp, Dr. Demster and Leonidas crossed the Deep 
 Creek bridge and soon disappeared around a bend in 
 the road. Clouds, borne upon the breeze, were fly 
 ing across the sky, obscuring, at intervals, the full 
 moon; so it was quite dark as the doctor's flea- 
 bitten gray mare jogged up to the worm fence that 
 bounded Briarcrest on the south. Having hitched 
 the mare, and helped the doctor over the rails, 
 Leonidas led the way down the path in the direction 
 of the big pine, all the while looking about him to 
 see if the man in white would again make his ap 
 pearance. 
 
 They had not gone far when a figure could be 
 distinctly seen sitting under the pine tree on the 
 same spot. He was holding his hand to his head, 
 just the same as the man in white had done. Be 
 tween his groans, they could distinctly hear him 
 cry, "O, if I only had not done it!" He then ran 
 into the branch, walking back and forth in the 
 water. Presently he came to the tree again all 
 the while holding his hand to his head. Though 
 the man was not now attired in white, still Leonidas 
 was convinced that he was the same man, and that
 
 THE HOLLOW TREE 221 
 
 it was Gabriel Arnold. He touched Dr. Demster 
 on the shoulder to attract his attention. 
 
 "That's Gabe Arnold now," said the doctor. 
 "We'll go to him. What say you?" 
 
 The doctor's high-pitched voice penetrated the 
 forest, and Arnold heard it. He ran through the 
 branch and leaped into the path, and then through 
 the woods, crying as he ran : 
 
 "They are coming ! They'll get me ! They'll get 
 me! Zeke, I told you not to tell." 
 
 "This is the place," said Leonidas to Dr. Dem 
 ster, as they paused under the tree where Arnold 
 had been sitting. 
 
 "This is where I found the medal, and this is 
 the place where Count de Bussy met his fate. I 
 suppose the crime has haunted Gabriel Arnold to 
 such an extent that in his delirium he has wandered 
 down here. Is it not strange that he frequents the 
 scene of his crime? I am sure now it was he whom 
 Uncle Zeke saw and thought to be a ghost." 
 
 "How about the paper that Zeke told you of?" 
 asked the doctor, indicating that he felt great in 
 terest in the writing, whatever it might prove to be. 
 "Can you locate the tree? Did you say it was a 
 gum tree ?" 
 
 "Yes, it was a gum tree, and this is it, I think," 
 said Leonidas, as he turned and walked over to a 
 tree which stood near. "I am sure this is the one. 
 Come and see." 
 
 Leonidas was soon on the ground, feeling about 
 the root of the tree for the entrance to the hollow 
 in which Arnold had concealed the paper.
 
 222 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "I've found it," exclaimed Leonidas. 
 
 "What! the paper?" asked the doctor, excitedly. 
 
 "No, the hollow," said Leonidas, "but I feel sure 
 the paper is not far away. Uncle Zeke knew what 
 he was talking about." 
 
 By this time the old doctor was upon the ground 
 anxiously watching the movements of Leonidas as 
 he groped after the paper. Feeling about in all 
 directions, his hand seemed to stray away into one 
 of the great roots which had rotted like the body of 
 the tree. Many inches down in this hollow he felt 
 a paper, which he hoped would prove to be the ob 
 ject of his search. 
 
 "I've got it, Doctor. It's ours at last." 
 
 He drew the paper out, and carefully straightened 
 it, and handed it to the doctor, while he made a 
 light by setting fire to some dry leaves. Sure 
 enough, it was written in the French language, 
 but had been torn at the bottom, and had neither 
 name nor date. With this defect much of its value 
 was gone. Leonidas again put his hand into the 
 hollow, and found hanging on a splinter a much 
 smaller piece of paper of the same texture, and an 
 examination and comparison showed that it had 
 been torn from the original writing. 
 
 Placing it in the light of the fire they saw the 
 reward of their effort confronting them. On the 
 right side of the slip of paper, and near the bot 
 tom edge was simply the word, "Napoleon," while 
 beginning on the left, and ending nearly across the 
 sheet, were the words, "Thouvenel, Minister of 
 Foreign Affairs." While still below this, and in
 
 THE HOLLOW TREE 223 
 
 the left corner of the paper, were the words, "Comte 
 de Bussy, Commissioner to the Confederate States 
 Government." 
 
 In his excitement the doctor began: "It's writ 
 ten in cipher, and surely is of great importance, but 
 de Bussy has translated it into plain French, so it 
 is easy to read. By the Eternal! It's the Count's 
 private instructions from Napoleon to President 
 Davis. Let us see what it says :" 
 
 "His Majesty the Emperor of the French, tak 
 ing into consideration the present success and the 
 future prospects of the Confederate States of Amer 
 ica, directs that you, Comte de Bussy, be a Com 
 missioner to the said Confederate States, and that 
 you proceed at once to Richmond, the capital, to 
 confer with the President and Secretary of State 
 concerning matters looking to the proper recogni 
 tion of their government by the Empire of France. 
 Proceed with great caution, and do not commit 
 His Majesty's Government to any policy without 
 first reporting the attitude of the Confederacy 
 touching the following points: 
 
 "I. The reestablishment of the Republic of 
 Texas. It is highly important for the interest of 
 the French Empire in America to have a weaker, 
 though an apparently independent, power between 
 the Confederate States and Mexico, though in fact, 
 under the protection of His Majesty's Government. 
 Confer with Theron, French Consul in Texas. 
 
 "II. The abolition of slavery. The English are 
 not willing for an Anglo-French recognition of the 
 Confederate States while slavery is maintained.
 
 224 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Ascertain if the Richmond Government will con 
 cede this point if recognition can thereby be accom 
 plished. "NAPOLEON. 
 "Thouvenel, Minister of Foreign Affairs. 
 
 "Comte de Bussy, Commissioner to Confederate 
 States Government." 
 
 "Great guns!" exclaimed the doctor, greatly ex 
 cited, "this is conclusive. It is evident that de 
 Bussy was murdered here, as it corroborates Zeke's 
 story. And the finding of this, his private instruc 
 tion from Napoleon III, shows exactly what he was 
 doing in the Confederacy. I'm sorry he was mur 
 dered, but I shall be glad if the whole project come 
 to grief. If it can be prevented, I trust it will not 
 succeed." 
 
 The doctor was silent for a few moments before 
 he spoke again: 
 
 "Think of it. Napoleon's pretensions are not gen 
 uine after all. He is a selfish old scoundrel ; an old 
 hypocrite. See what he says about Texas. He 
 wants to make an independent republic out of 
 Texas and wedge it in between the Confederate 
 States and Mexico. President Davis will never con 
 sent to that. And this is why Count de Bussy was 
 here! I trust the project will not succeed. Then 
 he wishes slavery abolished before he recognizes 
 the Confederacy. What would the South do with 
 out slavery? We might as well let all go as yield 
 this point. Pshaw! The South had better fight 
 it out fairly and squarely, and win or be defeated 
 without this deceitful Emperor. I will write Davis 
 my views on the subject, and tell him that Napo-
 
 THE HOLLOW TREE 225 
 
 Icon will only favor the Confederacy when it is 
 to his own advantage to do so, and not before." 
 
 Leonidas rose quickly, greatly surprised. 
 
 "You may well be shocked at the Emperor," said 
 the doctor, as he himself stood and took Leonidas 
 by the hand. 
 
 "I'm not surprised at the Emperor," said the 
 young man, excitedly, "but I heard an unusual 
 sound. It was a human voice whether of man or 
 woman, I cannot say."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 THE SUICIDE 
 
 The doctor passed the document to Leonidas, 
 who folded it hastily, putting it into the inside 
 pocket of his coat. The two then made their way 
 through the pines toward Arnold's home. When 
 they emerged from the thicket, and approached the 
 house, they detected a commotion on the front ve 
 randa. 
 
 The doctor and Leonidas were in the nick of 
 time, for it proved to be Isabel making a desperate 
 effort to restrain her Uncle Gabriel, who was at 
 that moment in a paroxysm of delirium, and it was 
 his voice that Leonidas had heard while at the hol 
 low tree. 
 
 "We are just in time," said Leonidas, quickly, 
 as he leaped upon the veranda and put his hand on 
 Arnold's shoulder. "We'll take care of him now, 
 Isabel." 
 
 "O, they've got me! They've got me, Isabel! 
 O! O!" screamed Arnold, as Leonidas pulled him 
 toward the door. 
 
 "We will not hurt you, Mr. Arnold," said Le 
 onidas, quietly, "we wish only to do the proper 
 thing for you. Come into the house." 
 
 Arnold screamed again, "They've got me, they've 
 got me at last." Then, after a brief silence, he
 
 -
 
 THE SUICIDE 227 
 
 said in a subdued tone, "Zeke, I told you not to 
 tell." 
 
 In a moment Isabel had opened the door and 
 Leonidas forced her uncle into the hall, and then 
 to his room, with Dr. Demster following closely be 
 hind. When in the bedchamber Arnold again be 
 came violent, and struggled desperately to escape, 
 not seeming to recognize either the doctor or Isa 
 bel. He had never seen Leonidas before. The 
 climax of his madness was reached when he 
 glanced toward the corner of the room where the 
 hickory club was standing with which he commit 
 ted the murder. 
 
 There was a blood stain on the stick, which had 
 been there since the day of the tragedy. Arnold 
 had not observed it until this moment. The sight 
 of the blood made him frantic, and he became al 
 most uncontrollable. Insane as he was, he still 
 could live through the tragedy of the "Dark Day," 
 on whch Count de Bussy met his fate. His strug 
 gles were overcome; for Leonidas held him tightly 
 in his grasp upon the floor pressing the knees 
 against his breast. Dr. Demster administered an 
 opiate and Arnold soon lay unconscious, breathing 
 in short snatches like a dying man. He was then 
 placed upon the bed. 
 
 "What shall we do with him, Doctor?" asked 
 Leonidas. 
 
 "Let him rest for a while," answered the doctor, 
 "then we shall consult the authorities and conform 
 to the Virginia law. When this is done, we shall 
 hurry him off to the asylum for the insane. He is
 
 228 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 hopelessly crazy. I am sure he will not live long, 
 but while he does live he is certain to be violent, 
 and should be under the care of those who are pre 
 pared to treat a man in his condition." 
 
 "There are times when he is quite sane," re 
 marked Isabel, "or appears to be so. Just the other 
 day he seemed rational, and wrote what I suspect 
 was a letter. He concealed it somewhere and I 
 have not yet found it. I do not know what he was 
 writing, but I am certain it was a matter of inter 
 est and importance. No, Doctor, my uncle is not 
 totally insane, though at times he is wild and un 
 manageable. While you and Leonidas are here 
 let me search for that letter." 
 
 "Are you sure you are right, in the plan you pro 
 pose?" asked Leonidas, when Isabel had closed 
 the door behind her. "Is it right, after all, that Mr. 
 Arnold's crime should be kept from the authorities ? 
 It may be as she says, that he is not absolutely in 
 sane, and that there are times when he is rational, 
 and knows what he is doing. This makes him re 
 sponsible. It seems to me the authorities should 
 know about it." 
 
 "No; never, never. He is a fit subject for the 
 asylum. Let them keep him until he is restored to 
 his reason, if he ever is. My opinion is that he 
 will not live long and this will solve the difficulty." 
 
 "How about Count de Bussy's wife?" asked Le 
 onidas. "Should she not know that the Count will 
 never return? The poor thing is wild with sus 
 pense. She would be far better off to know the 
 truth concerning him."
 
 THE SUICIDE 229 
 
 "Don't be in too great a hurry to do right, my 
 boy," said the doctor. "Let us go slowly. It will 
 do no harm to commit him to the asylum, and await 
 results. When he recovers his mind it will be 
 time enough to think of the next course to pursue. 
 I'll be back soon." 
 
 The doctor left Leonidas with Gabriel Arnold, 
 as Isabel returned from a fruitless search for the 
 letter. 
 
 "What did the doctor say about Uncle Gabriel?" 
 Isabel asked, softly. 
 
 Leonidas was bending over Arnold's body and 
 did not hear what she said. He seemed to be listen 
 ing, rather, to what fell from the lips of her uncle, 
 who muttered as he slept. Isabel approached 
 Leonidas and put her hand upon his shoulder be 
 fore he observed that she was near him. 
 
 "What did the doctor say?" she asked again, 
 as Leonidas rose and led the way to the other side 
 of the room. 
 
 "That your uncle is insane, and must be commit 
 ted to the asylum, Isabel; but somehow or other I 
 feel that the doctor is mistaken. I can't explain it, 
 but I have a presentiment that his case will termi 
 nate in some other way. Whether it will be better 
 or worse I do not know. I don't believe he will 
 go to the asylum. I did think this at first, but my 
 mind has changed and I do not know why." 
 
 "I feel that something awful will happen, too, 
 Leonidas," said Isabel, wringing her hands and be 
 ginning to weep. 
 
 Leonidas lifted Isabel's head until her eyes, red 
 
 16
 
 230 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 and heavy from weeping, looked pitifully up to his 
 own, and said, "No matter what happens, dearest 
 Isabel, we'll be happy." 
 
 "How can I ever be happy, when there is so much 
 evil surrounding my life?" asked Isabel. "Can I 
 ever forget the sadness of my life?" 
 
 "But you are mine, Isabel. Be brave, and let us 
 trust for a brighter day." 
 
 "O, O, O!" cried Isabel, in a shrill voice, that 
 made Leonidas wonder what had happened. "Look ! 
 Look! Uncle! My uncle! See! See!" 
 
 Leonidas turned quickly, and was startled to ob 
 serve Arnold sitting upon the side of his bed with 
 a bright steel blade in his hand. He raised the 
 knife in his right hand and, with the left hand point 
 ing toward a small cupboard in the northeast cor 
 ner of the room, said, "There ! It's there Isabel !" 
 
 Before another word could be spoken or a step 
 taken Gabriel Arnold had plunged the knife into 
 his breast, and falling back upon the bed left the 
 blade sticking in his body. 
 
 Isabel rushed to where Arnold lay, and with an 
 impulse as quick as thought she snatched the knife 
 and threw it upon the floor. Then, as if by some 
 reaction in her strength she dropped limp at his 
 bedside. 
 
 "Uncle, Uncle," she cried, and the tone of her 
 voice, in the midst of her sobbing, revealed the an 
 guish of her heart. 
 
 "It's all over now, Isabel," said Leonidas, placing 
 his arm around her. "Your uncle has solved the 
 problem."
 
 THE SUICIDE 231 
 
 "A suicide!" sobbed Isabel, as she dropped her 
 head against Leonidas's shoulder and began to cry- 
 bitterly. "And a murderer, too." 
 
 Isabel raised her head and with an heroic effort 
 ceased sobbing. She looked steadily into Leonidas's 
 face for a moment, then asked, "Leonidas, did my 
 Uncle Gabriel murder Count de Bussy?" 
 
 "It is as you think, Isabel," said Leonidas, sadly. 
 "Your uncle is a murderer and a suicide. There is 
 no doubt about his having killed Count de Bussy. 
 What a problem he solves!" 
 
 "What problem, Leonidas?" questioned Isabel, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "The problem as to what should be done with 
 him," answered Leonidas. "I knew him to be a 
 murderer. I thought so when I saw you in the 
 pines, but was not absolutely certain. There was 
 a train of circumstances that always led to him 
 whenever it was followed, but then the train was 
 not complete until Uncle Zeke told me of the 
 tragedy in the pine woods. It lacked the two last 
 links: one being Uncle Zeke's statement, the other 
 the finding of the paper. I did not tell you what I 
 believed, because I was not absolutely certain. A 
 part of my information was wanting. This is why 
 I did not say before that your uncle was a mur 
 derer." 
 
 "Did Uncle Zeke tell you?" asked Isabel, with a 
 nervous tremor in her voice. 
 
 "Yes, Uncle Zeke told the whole story just before 
 he died, and his story was corroborated by the 
 finding of the Count's private instruction from Na-
 
 232 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 poleon III in a hollow tree near the spot where he 
 was murdered," said Leonidas, taking the docu 
 ment from his pocket and pointing to the name on 
 the detached piece. 
 
 "But I interrupted you," said Isabel. "What 
 problem is solved by my uncle's suicide?" 
 
 "If your uncle had lived, I could not have car 
 ried his secret." 
 
 "You should not have done so, even though the 
 murderer was my uncle," replied Isabel, with con 
 viction. "He should have suffered for his crime, 
 and I" 
 
 "Don't think of it again. No matter what 
 turn the case might have taken I would love 
 you still and make you mine. Should the public 
 ever know it will in no way effect my love for 
 you." 
 
 "But this does not change the fact that I am 
 the niece, and live in the house of my uncle who is 
 a murderer and a suicide, and you know what that 
 means to me, and what it may mean to you in the 
 future. I am not willing to embarrass you or to 
 put myself in a position to be humiliated." 
 
 "Why, Isabel," answered Leonidas, with much 
 tenderness, "you surely do not mean to reflect upon 
 me by forecasting my future conduct toward you. 
 I love you, and wish to give you my name. We 
 may now bury this dark chapter forever out of 
 sight. Isabel, promise me, here and now, never to 
 refer to it again." 
 
 "Gabe Arnold will go to the asylum," announced 
 Dr. Demster, in his long-drawn nasal twang, as he
 
 THE SUICIDE 233 
 
 opened the door and came into the room uncere 
 moniously. 
 
 The old physician was only an instant in real 
 izing what had happened in his absence. A glance 
 at Arnold as he lay upon the bed, with the knife in 
 sight and the blood-stained clothing, was all the ex 
 planation necessary. He knew Arnold had reached 
 the end and had taken his own life. He was sure, 
 too, it had been done so quickly that Leonidas and 
 Isabel had been unable to prevent it. 
 
 "Not to the asylum, Doctor," said Leonidas. 
 "The problem is solved. We have nothing further 
 to do with this crime. This is a terrible ending of 
 the case, but I am free to confess that since it came 
 in this manner there are some compensations to 
 those who are most involved." 
 
 "He must have done it very quickly," said the 
 doctor. "He didn't get as big a dose as I intended 
 or he would have slept until now." 
 
 "It was quickly done," said Leonidas. "Isabel 
 observed him first, sitting upon the side of the bed 
 with a knife in his hand. She called my attention, 
 but before anything could be done to prevent it he 
 had driven the blade hilt-deep into his breast. I 
 suspect it went to his heart, for he died with a 
 groan." 
 
 "Then he said nothing?" inquired the doctor, 
 surprised. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Leonidas, "just before plunging 
 the knife he pointed toward the corner, there, and 
 said, 'There it's there, Isabel !' ' 
 
 "Then we'll look," broke in the doctor.
 
 234 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 They went to the little cupboard, and with some 
 effort sprang the lock and opened the door. On 
 the top shelf, under the lid of a musty old book, 
 they found a paper in Arnold's handwriting. It 
 was the paper which Isabel saw him write a few 
 days before. Across the top edge of the paper were 
 the words, "The last statement and request of Ga 
 briel Arnold," written in a bold hand. 
 
 "I am a desperate man. I have shed human 
 blood, and that the blood of a man who never of 
 fended me in the least. There is not the slightest 
 fact that justifies it. So far as I am concerned, he 
 was an innocent man. I am the cruel murderer of 
 Count de Bussy. I murdered him for a small sum 
 of money. Since the day of the eclipse of the sun 
 I have known nothing of the world, and have de 
 sired to know nothing. Life to me has been a bur 
 den and I have often wished I might die. I would 
 terminate my miserable existence but for the fact 
 that I fear to face the consequences of my wicked 
 deed and meet the Count in the other world. I am 
 a coward, and I know it. If I am ever brave 
 enough I shall meet the Count face to face. I 
 have tried to run the dagger to my wicked heart 
 but have always failed because of cowardice. Some 
 day I'll be brave enough to die and face my vic 
 tim. 
 
 "I wish to be buried where the world can never 
 find my grave (if it's to be a grave) ; so that my 
 body, which has been driven into crime, may rest 
 while my wretched soul is enduring its doom. I 
 do not deserve a man's burial. To bury me like a
 
 THE SUICIDE 235 
 
 dog would be a great honor to one so wicked, and 
 I ask this boon. 
 
 "I trust my niece will find this paper when I am 
 dead, and do as I request. 
 
 "These are my wishes.: 
 
 "i. At two o'clock in the morning consign my 
 wretched body to a hole in the ground. Don't call 
 it a grave. Bury it at the root of the third tree of 
 the sixth row in the old apple orchard the place 
 where my hound dogs have lain for more than 
 forty years. 
 
 "2. When buried with my dogs, fix the place so 
 that no one will ever find the spot. I wish to be 
 forgotten forever. I do not deserve to live in the 
 memory of any mortal. 
 
 "3. Do not honor me with a coffin. If the law 
 requires one, put me in a yellow-pine box fastened 
 together with white-oak pegs. 
 
 "If this paper falls under the eye of my niece 
 first, I trust she will do as I request, and call only 
 one or two others to assist her, and pledge them 
 to secrecy. 
 
 "This is my last statement and request, and may 
 God have mercy on my soul. 
 
 "GABRIEL ARNOLD." 
 
 "Well! Well! Well!" exclaimed the Doctor, 
 "We'll do as he wishes, and bury him among his 
 dogs."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 
 
 GABRIEL ARNOLD'S wishes were observed, as far 
 as practicable. He was buried two hours after mid 
 night under the third tree of the sixth row in the 
 old apple orchard, which had been the graveyard 
 for his hounds for more than forty years. 
 
 The burial was over and the little company 
 had returned to the house. They were about to 
 ascend to the veranda when Isabel paused and 
 staggered, and would have dropped powerless at 
 the step had not Dr. Demster stood near and sup 
 ported her. 
 
 "My uncle, my uncle, a murderer, and a " 
 she moaned, but had not consciousness to finish the 
 speech. 
 
 She was borne by the doctor and Leonidas into 
 the house, and more than an hour passed in the 
 use of restoratives before she regained control of 
 herself. The young man had dropped on one 
 knee at the side of the couch and rubbed her brow, 
 looking anxiously into her pale face for a time be 
 fore a word was said. 
 
 "Is it serious, Doctor?" he asked, much con 
 cerned. 
 
 "I trust not," said the physician, as he felt her 
 pulse with one hand, and pinched her eyelid with
 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 237 
 
 the other. "No, I trust not. Her pulse is strong, 
 and her eye is clear." 
 
 "Will she soon recover? What's the trouble? 
 Has she only fainted?" 
 
 "It is the natural reaction from the long and 
 terrible strain," answered the doctor. "The girl 
 has been worried almost past endurance. She could 
 not help having suspicion concerning her uncle. 
 She feared the worst in his case, but she has borne 
 it heroically. Now that it is all over the reaction 
 was more than she could stand. But I think she 
 will soon be well again." 
 
 "Do you think she suspected her uncle of mur 
 dering Count de Bussy?" 
 
 "Since my second visit, I think she did," an 
 swered the doctor. 
 
 "I fear so, too, and that is why she has not con 
 sented to become my wife." 
 
 "What's that?" demanded the doctor, quickly. 
 "Hasn't consented to become your wife? Why, 
 what does this mean? I thought you would marry 
 without delay." 
 
 "She thinks the wickedness of her uncle stands 
 as an obstacle in the way," said Leonidas sadly, 
 gazing at her. "She calls herself an unfortunate 
 girl, and, while I am sure of her love, she insists 
 that, because of her relationship to such a wicked 
 man as Gabriel Arnold, we ought not to marry, as 
 it might discredit me." 
 
 "She is nobler even than I thought," said the 
 doctor, with satisfaction in face and voice. "How 
 do you feel about this?"
 
 238 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "I honor her for the position she takes," replied 
 Leonidas, "but I am anxious that she should yield 
 her point. I am not the least bit concerned about 
 the opinions of society. Isabel Proctor is a true, 
 upright girl. She is unfortunate to have had an 
 uncle like Gabriel Arnold, but she is in no way 
 responsible for this misfortune; and I think I 
 should be cruel indeed to pay any attention to it. 
 I love her and I know my love is returned, and I 
 shall marry her if her objection can be overcome." 
 
 "Then you don't seem to care what comments 
 may follow," said the doctor, wishing to know how 
 the young man would view the matter. 
 
 "I'm sorry that Isabel's uncle was a murderer 
 and a suicide. I am also sorry to think there would 
 be any unfavorable comment. But Isabel is pure 
 and good and that settles the matter with me. Yes, 
 Doctor, I shall marry her, and be happy, no matter 
 what people may say." 
 
 "Again you are a hero, my boy," exclaimed the 
 doctor, "and soon you will have all I possess and 
 be independent. You'll be rich. Do you realize 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes, I think I realize it," answered Leonidas, 
 "and I shall be happy to give her what she deserves 
 and thereby compensate for the suffering she has 
 endured. She has had a hard time, but she has 
 been heroic in it all. I trust she will see it as I 
 do. Doctor, I shall never be governed by the un 
 charitable whims of the people. It needs only Is 
 abel's consent and we shall be married. I am sure 
 this is your desire, for "
 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 239 
 
 During the conversation Dr. Demster had ta 
 ken a seat by the bedside and was holding Isabel's 
 hand, while Leonidas stood with his hand upon the 
 old physician's shoulder. 
 
 Isabel now stirred. She turned her head and 
 looked about the room with unseeing eyes. She 
 seemed dazed, but in a moment she moaned : 
 
 "O, the shame of it! Leonidas will be dis 
 graced." 
 
 "Dearest Isabel," said Leonidas, quickly. 
 
 "My uncle, my uncle a murderer, and a suicide. 
 Murdered Count de Bussy. Killed himself," she 
 said distinctly, turning her head and looking up 
 into Leonidas's face. 
 
 "It's all true," said the young man, "and sad 
 enough, but will you not forget it? Let us make 
 the best of the future. Here is our friend the 
 doctor. When you are stronger we will talk about 
 our plans." 
 
 Isabel was weak, and greatly in need of rest, so 
 it was toward the middle of the forenoon before 
 the subject was mentioned again. Then the three 
 left the house and walked leisurely down the syca 
 more lane and entered the path which passed 
 through the pines, stopping at the gum log. 
 
 "It was here that we saw the red-bird that 
 seemed so happy," said Isabel, and it was evident 
 that she entertained the same sad thoughts that had 
 annoyed her when she last visited the spot. 
 
 "Yes," admitted Leonidas, "it was here we saw 
 the bird, but it was here, too, that you made me 
 happy when you told me you loved me."
 
 240 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 "Yes, you were happy," Isabel answered, "but 
 I could not help feeling sad in my own heart, and 
 sorry that you loved me. I felt that your love 
 should have been bestowed upon another one less 
 unworthy." 
 
 "But you don't feel so now; do you, Isabel? Have 
 you not dismissed that delusion?" 
 
 "I still feel that I am an unfortunate girl," in 
 sisted Isabel, "and that you do not deserve the em 
 barrassment that I would of necessity cause you." 
 
 "But listen, my girl," broke in the doctor. "I 
 know how you feel. It is very thoughtful, but 
 don't press the matter any further. This is my 
 boy now and you are dear to me on his account. 
 He loves you and you love him. I want you to 
 marry and be happy, so I can come to see you once 
 in a while. This is the old doctor's advice. You 
 will do this, I am sure." 
 
 "We will do better," interrupted Leonidas. "We 
 will marry and live at Briarcrest, and you shall live 
 with us. You have been alone long enough and 
 it will gladden our life if you will stay at our 
 home." 
 
 The old physician was not a little stirred by this 
 new idea proposed by Leonidas. It would be a great 
 change for a man who had lived alone so many 
 years, and he hardly knew just how he could con 
 form to the new and changed condition, but he was 
 impressed with the suggestion. He put his hands 
 on the shoulders of the young people and, address 
 ing Isabel, said : "If you marry Leonidas will you 
 let me live with you? I would like to be with my
 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 241 
 
 boy; and if you love him I want to be with you, 
 too. Say : will you dismiss that idea you have and 
 marry soon? And then I am sure we will all be 
 happy. Tell me, will you do this?" 
 
 "O, Doctor," said Isabel, with sadness and un 
 certainty in her voice, "is it right for me to marry 
 Leonidas and have him discredited for life? You 
 know the people would point at him in derision be 
 cause he had married Gabriel Arnold's niece. My 
 uncle was a murderer and a suicide, and the stigma 
 will rest upon me for life. I do not think Leonidas 
 should be so handicapped." 
 
 "But nobody knows that your uncle was a mur 
 derer," responded the doctor. "Nobody but our 
 selves know how de Bussy came to his death. Let 
 it be a secret forever, and nobody need ever know. 
 The fact that your uncle committed suicide will not 
 disgrace you, as many a worthy man in a moment 
 of temporary insanity has taken his own life." 
 
 "It is true," replied Isabel, "that no one else 
 knows of the murder of the Count, but I shall not 
 be content until his poor wife knows about it at 
 least until her suspense is relieved. The poor thing 
 is frantic because she does not know whether he is 
 dead or alive. I shall not rest until she is informed 
 that he is dead. Until you and Leonidas consent 
 to this I shall forever say 'No.' ' 
 
 "It is right that the woman should know," ad 
 mitted the doctor, "but there is a way to tell her 
 and still not afflict yourself any more than neces 
 sary. Yes, she should know. But even this 
 should not prevent your marriage. You marry
 
 242 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Leonidas, and the sooner it's done the bet 
 ter. I'll attend to arrangements. I'll get the 
 license, then fetch the parson, and such like. I'll 
 be back before the rise of another sun. Mind that, 
 now, my children." 
 
 The old physician walked slowly away, leaving 
 the lovers beneath the twining branches of the 
 dogwood and swamp laurel. 
 
 "Isabel, dearest, will you dismiss all objections 
 from your mind? Tell me, dearest, will you be 
 mine?" asked Leonidas, when the doctor had gone. 
 
 "Leonidas, Leonidas," she answered sadly, "do 
 you know what you ask? And do you mean it?" 
 
 "I know, dearest Isabel, and I mean it with all 
 my heart. Will you consent ?" 
 
 Isabel looked up into Leonidas's face for a mo 
 ment before she replied. She hesitated, then at 
 tempted to speak, but recalled her words before 
 they could pass her lips. The decision was momen 
 tous. She could scarcely tell what to say. 
 
 "Leonidas, I I" 
 
 "Tell me. Tell me, darling," said Leonidas, 
 "that you will be mine. Say so, dearest." 
 
 "O, Leonidas, Leonidas, you do not realize all 
 that will follow, I fear, or you would not wish me 
 to consent. Again I say so noble a name as yours 
 should not be blighted by marriage with a name 
 so scarlet as mine." 
 
 "I know what your mind magnifies so, dearest," 
 said Leonidas, "but in spite of it I love you, and 
 must have your consent to be mine." 
 
 "No, no, it cannot be," said Isabel, tearfully, but
 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 243 
 
 still hesitating. Suddenly she threw aside the light 
 figured shawl she wore, and thrust her hand nerv 
 ously into the bosom of her dress, taking from 
 it a note which she handed to Leonidas. 
 
 "What is it, Isabel?" he asked, observing that 
 she was greatly agitated as she passed it to him. 
 
 "O," she cried, "can it be possible? Is it true 
 of me? You see by this I can never be yours. I 
 should disgrace you forever." 
 
 "PORTSMOUTH, VA." 
 
 "ISABEL PROCTOR : I write this to let you know 
 that the thought of you is obnoxious to me, and 
 that any relationship between you and my son Le 
 onidas meets with my positive disapproval. You 
 are not worthy of a Darwood. It is bad enough to 
 be poor, but the fact that a girl makes her home 
 with such a man as Gabriel Arnold, is sufficient 
 to brand her forever and unfit her for associa 
 tion with respectable people. 
 
 "Besides, it may be said to your discredit that 
 there is a dark mystery connected with your birth. 
 To speak frankly, you are an illegitimate child of 
 unknown parents. I want you to understand that 
 I cannot tolerate the thought of Leonidas associat 
 ing with such a person when there is the remotest 
 danger of her becoming his wife. I believe such 
 an event is possible, and that it accounts for his 
 being away from his home at this time. 
 
 "If you have any regard for the wishes of re 
 spectable members of society you will discourage 
 the attentions of my son. 
 
 "THOMAS DARWOOD."
 
 244 I N THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 When Leonidas finished reading the note he de 
 liberately tore it into several pieces and threw it 
 under foot. 
 
 "This is what I care for the insult," he said, as 
 he raised his heel and turned upon the sole of his 
 shoe, grinding the bits of paper deeper into the 
 ground. "I heard this before. I knew what my 
 father thought when I left home, Isabel; and now 
 I renew my entreaty." 
 
 "Is it nothing to you, Leonidas, that I am of un 
 known birth?" asked Isabel. "That I am an ille 
 gitimate child?" 
 
 "Not in the least," he replied, emphatically. "It 
 is unjust to blame people for what they cannot 
 control. If the worst that is said by my father be 
 true you are in no sense responsible for it and I 
 shall not allow it to influence me. I am more anx 
 ious than ever to hear from your lips the words 
 which will make me happy. Will you say them 
 now?" 
 
 "But, Leonidas, I have a strange idea, and it has 
 annoyed me every hour since I received your fath 
 er's note. Suppose it turns out at last that I am 
 the child of Gabriel Arnold, the man I have be 
 lieved to be only my uncle? Is this why he took 
 me, and is this why he has been so cruel? Did he 
 take me because he felt he must? Leonidas, you 
 cannot tell how this awful thought has harrowed 
 my heart. The child of Gabriel Arnold! He was 
 never married. O, it cannot be." 
 
 "Isabel, should I believe it all to be true, it would 
 not change my love for you. I know, dearest Isa-
 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 245 
 
 bel, what I ask, and I mean it with all my heart. 
 Will you tell me that you will be mine?" 
 
 "Leonidas, Leonidas," cried Isabel in the climax 
 of her struggle, "I I , well " 
 
 "Make me happy," pleaded Leonidas. "Let your 
 self be happy. Speak, dearest." 
 
 "I am yours, Leonidas," she breathed faintly. 
 "I will be yours forever." 
 
 "I am happy, Isabel. I shall always remember 
 this moment, for you have promised to be mine 
 forever." 
 
 Leonidas placed his arm about Isabel's shoulders, 
 drawing her to his side. She leaned against him 
 with her head resting on his breast. She looked up 
 into his face ; her lips trembled ; her bosom heaved ; 
 the tears gathered in her eyes. She made an effort 
 to speak, but words failed her in this moment of 
 transcendent happiness. 
 
 "What is it, Isabel? Can't you tell me? You 
 are not sad now, are you not as you were when 
 the red-bird played across the path, yonder?" 
 
 "I'm happy, now," replied Isabel, softly. "In 
 spite of it all, Leonidas, I am happy." 
 
 "Isabel! Isabel!" 
 
 Just as the half -spent moon peeped up from be 
 hind the pines Dr. Demster drove up to the stile 1 
 in front of the Arnold homestead, accompanied by 
 the Rev. Vernon Eskridge. It was he who had dis 
 coursed upon the Beatitudes, and who, without 
 knowing it, had changed the current of Leonidas 
 
 1 The stile, the sycamores and many other landmarks have long since 
 disappeared from Briarcrest.
 
 246 IN THE SHADOW OF THE PINES 
 
 Darwood's life. It was fitting that he should be 
 present now. 
 
 As the minister and the doctor alighted a man 
 stepped down from the veranda, and with long 
 strides disappeared around the corner of the house. 
 
 "Did you see that man?" asked the minister. "He 
 has on a uniform. I presume he is a Confederate 
 officer. He is one of the guests, I suppose." 
 
 "No, he is not a guest. He is an intruder," said 
 the doctor, "and his presence about here means no 
 good, I fear. He has been a great annoyance to 
 young Darwood, and I am sorry he has turned up 
 at this time." 
 
 "Do you anticipate trouble?" asked the minister. 
 
 The doctor's manner indicated a desire to dis 
 miss the subject, so the two men passed quietly into 
 the house. Besides Dr. Demster, the minister, Le- 
 onidas and Isabel, none was present except Ezra 
 and Aunt Dinah. It was the wish of both Isabel 
 and Leonidas that only their nearest and tried 
 friends should witness the ceremony. 
 
 As the parson read from his book, "If any can 
 show just cause why they may not lawfully be 
 joined together, let him now speak," a sound was 
 heard from the veranda. The front door opened 
 and footsteps were heard shuffling down the hall. 
 There was a pause in the reading, as a sad-faced 
 man, bent with the weight of years, came into the 
 room. He moved to where the company stood, but 
 then remained as motionless as a statue for a mo 
 ment, eyeing the two young people as they stood 
 before the minister. The silence at last became op-
 
 A CHANGE OF MIND 247 
 
 pressive. Leonidas began to show signs of anxiety, 
 for he anticipated some inopportune scene. Isabel 
 gazed in wonder at the aged stranger. She had 
 never seen him before, but she trembled as she ob 
 served his peculiar expression. She turned toward 
 Leonidas, grasping him tightly by the arm, and 
 looking anxiously into his face asked "Who is it? 
 and what is he here for?" 
 
 "I approve of it," said the old man, with a shak 
 ing voice. "Before God, I give my approval. I 
 have been wrong. My son has been right. I have 
 repented in bitter tears. I have been both foolish 
 and uncharitable. O, forgive me!" The old man 
 placed his hands upon the young couple's heads, 
 and looking intently at Isabel, he said: "From 
 henceforth you are my daughter. Forgive me for 
 a great wrong. How wicked I was to resort to a 
 villainous slander, and impugn your good name to 
 cause my son to hate you ! It was a lie. I knew it 
 at the time. Forgive me for what I have done." 
 
 Then he f ell on Leonidas's neck and sobbed aloud: 
 "How unjust I have been! O, to what depths of 
 sin my prejudices have led! Forgive me for the 
 evil I did. I have repented. Forgive a wicked and 
 prejudiced old man. Leonidas, my son, your faith 
 is now mine, and shall be forever. You must bring 
 your wife home to see mother, without delay."
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 IN less than a fortnight after the wedding at 
 Briarcrest, Leonidas and Isabel called at the home 
 of the French Count's wife. They related the facts 
 concerning the murder of her husband, and gave 
 her the medal and the paper containing the Count's 
 private instructions from Napoleon III. The poor 
 woman expressed her gratitude for the sad news, 
 as it was a relief to know the worst and to have sus 
 pense ended. 
 
 Nothing was ever positively known concerning 
 the disposition of the Count's body. In 1869 the 
 bones of a man were accidentally discovered in a 
 stone culvert that received the water from the 
 branch that ran through Arnold's farm and emptied 
 into the Elizabeth river. The skeleton was sup 
 posed to be that of the French nobleman. Leonidas 
 Darwood had little doubt as to its identity when he 
 observed that the skull was fractured in two places. 
 
 Concerning Captain Vantine it is sufficient to say 
 that when he strode away from the veranda at 
 Briarcrest and disappeared around the corner of 
 the house he realized that all hope of gaining the 
 love of Isabel Proctor was gone; for he now 
 knew she was about to become the wife of his rival. 
 He lost all interest in life and became reckless and 
 despondent. In General Pickett's charge at Gettys 
 burg he was among the first to reach the stone
 
 EPILOGUE 249 
 
 fence, and cheered lustily when the Confederate 
 flag was placed upon the rampart. He was in the 
 midst of the bloody onslaught in the Wilderness 
 and at Cold Harbor, and at the battle of the Crater 
 his daring deeds were the subject of much com 
 ment. When the cause of the South was acknowl 
 edged to be lost, and General Lee laid aside his 
 sword at Appomattox, Captain Vantine was one of 
 the last to admit defeat. 
 
 Jack Mobaly was never apprehended and he was 
 not seen in the vicinity of Deep Creek again, though 
 at times his name was connected with desperate 
 deeds done in the neighborhood of the Great Dis 
 mal Swamp.

 
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