“Miss Barbary, somebody gwine to git killed. I was wukkin’ in de ole field an’ Marse Grey rid by cussin’ to hisself. Jist now Marse Erskine went tearin’ by de landin’ wid a couple o’ swords under his arm.” His eyes too went to the wall. “Yes, bless Gawd, dey’s gone!” Barbara flew out the door.
In a few moments she had found Harry and Hugh. Even while their horses were being saddled her father rode up.
“It’s murder,” cried Harry, “and Grey knows it. Erskine knows nothing about a rapier.”
Without a word Colonel Dale wheeled his tired horse and soon Harry and Hugh dashed after him. Barbara walked back to the house, wringing her hands, but on the porch she sat quietly in the agony of waiting that was the rôle of women in those days.
Meanwhile, at a swift gallop Firefly was skimming along the river road. Grey had kept his word and more: he had not only ridden slowly but he had stopped and was waiting at an oak-tree that was a corner-stone between two plantations.
“That I may not kill you on your own land,” he said.
Erskine started. “The consideration is deeper than you know.”
They hitched their horses, and Erskine followed into a pleasant glade—a grassy glade through which murmured a little stream. Erskine dropped the rapiers on the sward.
“Take your choice,” he said.
“There is none,” said Grey, picking up the one nearer to him. “I know them both.” Grey took off his coat while Erskine waited. Grey made the usual moves of courtesy and still Erskine waited, wonderingly, with the point of the rapier on the ground.