"There are favors," he said, "that are crimes. It is one's duty to exterminate vermin, in the interest of the human race."
But, even as he spoke, she was having her way. Her slight strength had taken the weapon from him.
Then, with the face of a forgiving angel she turned toward the negro and uttered very softly one word, "Go!"
Glancing at the others to see if he might safely follow this direction, Hannibal disappeared in the thick woods behind him. He walked with an unsteady step. There was a strange lightness in his brain. Some distance away he found the boat in which he had come, and entered it, staggeringly. Pushing from the shore with a feeble touch on his paddle he set out for his home.
The negroes who found his body, a week later, could not decide whether he had perished by accident or by deliberate intention. The boat was not capsized, but it was partially filled with water, indicating either that he had tried to sink the craft or had leaned too heavily to one side in something like a stupor. When his gun was discovered on the shore, new speculations were set in motion.
Those who knew him recalled that he had been moody for a long time—in fact, ever since he came from the north. They remembered him as a young fellow, four or five years previous, not very different from his mates; and they had stared in wonder when he returned with fine clothes and money in his pocket. The dislike between him and his old acquaintances was mutual. They could not understand him; and what an inferior mind does not comprehend it always views with suspicion.
A grave was made near the border of the lake, and the single word "Hannibal" was written on the board that marked the spot. But later some envious hand scrawled beneath it:
"He wanted to be a gentleman!"