XVI
A long time Erskine sat motionless, wondering what ailed him. He had never liked nor trusted Grey; he believed he would have trouble with him some day, but he had other enemies and he did not feel toward them as he did toward this dandy mincing up that beautiful broad path. With a little grunt he turned back along the path. Firefly whinnied to him and nipped at him with playful restlessness as though eager to be on his way to the barn, and he stood awhile with one arm across his saddle. Once he reached upward to untie the reins, and with another grunt strode back and went rapidly up the path. Grey and Barbara had disappeared, but a tall youth who sat behind one of the big pillars saw him coming and rose, bewildered, but not for long. Each recognized the other swiftly, and Hugh came with stiff courtesy forward. Erskine smiled:
“You don’t know me?” Hugh bowed:
“Quite well.” The woodsman drew himself up with quick breath—paling without, flaming within—but before he could speak there was a quick step and an astonished cry within the hall and Harry sprang out.
“Erskine! Erskine!” he shouted, and he leaped down the steps with both hands outstretched. “You here! You—you old Indian—how did you get here?” He caught Erskine by both hands and then fell to shaking him by the shoulders. “Where’s your horse?” And then he noticed the boy’s pale and embarrassed face and his eyes shifting to Hugh, who stood, still cold, still courteous, and he checked some hot outburst at his lips.
“I’m glad you’ve come, and I’m glad you’ve come right now—where’s your horse?”
“I left him hitched at the landing,” Erskine had to answer, and Harry looked puzzled:
“The landing! Why, what——” He wheeled and shouted to a darky:
“Put Master Erskine’s horse in the barn and feed him.” And he led Erskine within—to the same room where he had slept before, and poured out some water in a bowl.
“Take your time,” he said, and he went back to the porch. Erskine could hear and see him through the latticed blinds.