“Worse than that—worse! worse! Quick! Rouse yourself, and see! Quick, or it will be too late! Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace—the dishonour of your house. Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!”
After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep—at least on the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor—in an attitude of speechless astonishment.
“Don’t wait to dress,” cried his excited counsellor, “stay, you may put on your pants. Damn the clothes! There’s no time for standing upon trifles. Quick! Quick!”
The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas cottonade, were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin—without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth—he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.
“What is it, Cash?” he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. “What does it all mean?”
“See for yourself! Stand close to me! Look through yonder opening in the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept. Do you see anything there?”
“Something white. It looks like a woman’s dress. It is that. It’s a woman!”
“It is a woman. Who do you suppose she is?”
“I can’t tell. Who do you say she is?”
“There’s another figure—a dark one—by her side.”