There was a question in his face which Morgan could not grasp. It gave him a feeling of impending trouble. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Stay here until I return,” commanded the judge. “I shall not be long.”
“I’m here to take my medicine,” reiterated Morgan, weakly. “I wouldn’t leave if the road was open to me, Judge.”
Judge Maxwell went to the door, calling for Hiram. Hiram was not far away. His candle was still burning; he came bobbing along the hall with it held high so he could look 353 under it, after the manner of one who had been using candles all his life.
“My overcoat, Hiram, and my neck shawl,” ordered the judge. He turned to Morgan, who was standing on the hearth.
“Wait for me, I’ll not be long away.”
“It’s a blusterin’ and a blowin’ mighty bad, Judge. I’ll get my coat––”
“No, no, Hiram; there’s something for you to do here. Watch that man; don’t let him leave.”
“He ain’t gwine a-leave, Judge, sah,” said Hiram with calm significance.
Hiram held up the great frieze coat, and the judge plunged his arms into it. Then the old negro adjusted the shawl about his master’s shoulders, and tucked the ends of it inside the coat, buttoning that garment over them, to shield the judge’s neck from the driving rain.