Mr. Robert lit a cigar in the shadow, and the smoke looked like his grey ghost expanding and escaping into the night air. Somehow, Uncle Bushrod could barely force his reluctant tongue to the dreadful subject. He stood, awkward, shambling, with his feet upon the gravel and fumbling with his stick. But then, afar off—three miles away, at the Jimtown switch—he heard the faint whistle of the coming train, the one that was to transport the Weymouth name into the regions of dishonour and shame. All fear left him. He took off his hat and faced the chief of the clan he served, the great, royal, kind, lofty, terrible Weymouth—he bearded him there at the brink of the awful thing that was about to happen.

“Marse Robert,” he began, his voice quavering a little with the stress of his feelings, “you ’member de day dey all rode de tunnament at Oak Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin’, and you crown Miss Lucy de queen?”

“Tournament?” said Mr. Robert, taking his cigar from his mouth. “Yes, I remember very well the—but what the deuce are you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go ’long home, Bushrod. I believe you’re sleep-walking.”

“Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder,” continued the old man, never heeding, “wid a s’ord, and say: ‘I mek you a knight, Suh Robert—rise up, pure and fearless and widout reproach.’ Dat what Miss Lucy say. Dat’s been a long time ago, but me nor you ain’t forgot it. And den dar’s another time we ain’t forgot—de time when Miss Lucy lay on her las’ bed. She sent for Uncle Bushrod, and she say: ‘Uncle Bushrod, when I die, I want you to take good care of Mr. Robert. Seem like’—so Miss Lucy say—‘he listen to you mo’ dan to anybody else. He apt to be mighty fractious sometimes, and maybe he cuss you when you try to ’suade him, but he need somebody what understand him to be ’round wid him. He am like a little child sometimes’—so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes shinin’ in her po’, thin face—‘but he always been’—dem was her words—‘my knight, pure and fearless and widout reproach.’ ”

Mr. Robert began to mask, as was his habit, a tendency to soft-heartedness with a spurious anger.

“You—you old windbag!” he growled, through a cloud of swirling cigar smoke. “I believe you are crazy. I told you to go home, Bushrod. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven’t kept the scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn’t it, Bushrod, when she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like a coffee-coloured gander?”

The train whistled again. Now it was at the water tank, a mile away.

“Marse Robert,” said Uncle Bushrod, laying his hand on the satchel that the banker held, “for Gawd’s sake, don’ take dis wid you. I knows what’s in it. I knows where you got it in de bank. Don’ kyar’ it wid you. Dey’s big trouble in dat valise for Miss Lucy and Miss Lucy’s child’s chillun. Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Weymouth and bow down dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation. Marse Robert, you can kill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don’t take away dis ’er’ valise. If I ever crosses over the Jordan, what I gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: ‘Uncle Bushrod, wharfo’ didn’ you take good care of Mr. Robert?’ ”

Mr. Robert Weymouth threw away his cigar and shook free one arm with that peculiar gesture that always preceded his outbursts of irascibility. Uncle Bushrod bowed his head to the expected storm, but he did not flinch. If the house of Weymouth was to fall, he would fall with it. The banker spoke, and Uncle Bushrod blinked with surprise. The storm was there, but it was suppressed to the quietness of a summer breeze.

“Bushrod,” said Mr. Robert, in a lower voice than he usually employed, “you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So you know what is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is some excuse, but—go home, Bushrod—not another word!”