They heard him in silence, but across the mind of the older man was flashing a stern epitaph—"He hath digged a pit for his neighbour, and hath fallen into the midst of it himself." Presently he sighed—his thought had shifted to the unknown man he had pardoned that night.
"It has been a singular evening," he said. "I am sorry Sevier was not here earlier—when our convict came. Strange that even you, Treadwell, should not have seen his face! I wonder," he added musingly, "if we shall ever know who he was!"
The Judge shook his head—the same wonder was in his mind. Treadwell's face was inscrutable. The Governor's gaze strayed up the long porch where at the further end a girl stood with the Governor-Elect in the rosy glow of the lanterns. He laid his gaunt hand affectionately on the Judge's shoulder.
"Brave and true!" he said. "When I think of what she told us tonight, Beverly, I have no words!"
Treadwell broke the silence. He spoke with a little flush mounting in his face, "I hope I need not say that I—that what we have heard to-night—"
But the Judge stopped him. "My dear Treadwell!" he said, in gentle reproof. "My dear Treadwell! We are all gentlemen!"
The Governor-Elect and the girl who stood beside him lingered a little longer in the shadow of the crimson rambler. Down the avenue beyond the great gate, the flambeaux clustered and faded and diminished, the band music had throbbed to silence and about them was only the silver, dew-silent night. They stood in silence. The old house behind them was full of jovial voices and laughter, and every window was glowing with lights, but where they stood was quiet and peace.
At length he took both her hands and laid them together, beneath his own, upon his breast.
"'Hours fly, flowers die'" (he quoted),
"'New men, new ways,
Pass by;
Love stays.'"
He lifted the hands he held to his lips. "Do you know the one thing that has come to me out of it all?"