“Phil!—Phil?” shrieked the old man, staggering to his club foot and stumbling toward Margaret with dilated eyes and whitening face; “My boy—Phil?—why—why, are you crazy?—Phil? Did you say—Phil?”
“Yes. Ben persuaded him to go to Charlotte until the excitement passed to avoid trouble. Come, come, sir, we must be quick! We may be too late!”
She seized and pulled him toward the door.
“Yes. Yes, we must hurry,” he said in a laboured whisper, looking around dazed. “You will show me the way, my child—you love him—yes, we will go quickly—quickly! my boy—my boy!”
Margaret called the landlord, and while they hitched Queen to the buggy, the old man stood helplessly wringing and fumbling his big ugly hands, muttering incoherently, and tugging at his collar as though about to suffocate.
As they dashed away, old Stoneman laid a trembling hand on Margaret’s arm.
“Your horse is a good one, my child?”
“Yes; the one Marion saved—the finest in the county.”
“And you know the way?”
“Every foot of it. Phil and I have driven it often.”