“Insulted a noble fellow! Ha—ha—ha! You’re mad—by heavens, you’re mad!”
“I should have been had I followed your counsel, cousin Cash. Fortunately I did not go so far. I have done enough to deserve being called worse than fool; though perhaps, under the circumstances, I may obtain forgiveness for my fault. At all events, I intend to try for it, and without losing time.”
“Where are you going?”
“After Maurice the mustanger—to apologise to him for my misconduct.”
“Misconduct! Ha—ha—ha! Surely you are joking?”
“No. I’m in earnest. If you come along with me, you shall see!”
“Then I say again you are mad! Not only mad, but a damned natural-born idiot! you are, by Jesus Christ and General Jackson!”
“You’re not very polite, cousin Cash; though, after the language I’ve been lately using myself, I might excuse you. Perhaps you will, one day imitate me, and make amends for your rudeness.”
Without adding another word, the young gentleman—one of the somewhat rare types of Southern chivalry—sprang to his saddle; gave the word, to his horse; and rode hurriedly through the saguan.
Calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but faintly distinguishable in the distance.