"Where's my coat?" cried Harry, surveying his shirt sleeves, "and my cravat,"—he passed his hands over his muscular throat,—"and—you,—what in the devil are you doing here?"
Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his brother's face, said in a low voice,—"I am in my own house, brother."
"Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and then burst into a laugh,—"come, now,—don't,—that's too good."
"My own house, to which I brought you some hours ago, after I had rescued you from the persons in the cellar——"
"Rescued me?" and an incredulous smile passed over Harry's face as he pulled at his bushy whiskers. "Better yet,—ha! ha!—You don't think to stuff me with any such damned nonsense?"
Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed with deeper light.
"Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in the same low voice, as he bent forward.—"As we were about to engage in conflict, you fell like a dead man on the floor. I took you in my arms; I defended you from the negroes who were clamorous for your blood; I bore you to upper air, and I, brother, then brought you in a carriage to my home; and I laid you on my bed, brother; and when you awoke from your swoon,—awoke with the ravings of delirium on your tongue,—I soothed you, until you fell in a sound sleep. This is the simple truth, brother."
Harry grew red in the face, then pale,—bit his lip,—pulled his whiskers, and then without turning his head, regarded Randolph with a sidelong glance. To tell the simple truth, Harry did not know what to say. He felt a swelling of the heart, a warmth in his veins, as though the magnetic gaze of Randolph had influenced him even against his will.
"You did all this?"—there was a faint tremor in his voice.
"I did, brother,"—Randolph's voice was deep and earnest.