“You my Marse Harry!—you!” His breath was gone now, his whole body in a tremble, his eyes bulging from his head.
“Yes, Alec, Harry! It's only the beard. Look at me! I didn't want my father to see us—that's why I kept on.”
The old servant threw up his hands and caught his young master around the neck. For some seconds he could not speak.
“And de colonel druv ye out!” he gasped. “Oh, my Gawd! my Gawd! And ye ain't daid, and ye come back home ag'in.” He was sobbing now, his head on the exile's shoulder, Harry's arms about him—patting his bent back. “But yer gotter go back, Marse Harry,” he moaned. “He ain't 'sponsible these days. He didn't know ye! Come 'long, son; come back wid ol' Alec; please come, Marse Harry. Oh, Gawd! ye GOTTER come!”
“No, I'll go home to-night—another day I'll—”
“Ye ain't got no home but dis, I tell ye! Go tell him who ye is—lemme run tell him. I won't be a minute. Oh! Marse Harry, I can't let ye go! I been dat mizzable widout ye. I ain't neber got over lovin' ye!”
Here a voice from near the office broke out. In the dusk the two could just make out the form of the colonel, who was evidently calling to some of his people. He was bareheaded and without his shade.
“I've sent Alec to see him safe off the grounds. You go yourself, Mr. Grant, and follow him into the highroad; remember that after this I hold you responsible for these prowlers.”
The two had paused while the colonel was speaking, Harry, gathering the reins in his hand, ready to vault into the saddle, and Alec, holding on to his coat-sleeves hoping still to detain him.
“I haven't a minute more—quick, Alec, tell me how my mother is.”