On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them, but stand silent. For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is passing. Their looks proclaim it.
Most of them know the young lady by sight—all by fame, or name. They feel surprise—almost wonder—at seeing her there. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!
More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case. Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them—facts that seem to confirm it. He has told them of the hat, the cloak—of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!
But why is Louise Poindexter there—alone—unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? A guest, too: for in this character does she appear! Her cousin does not explain it—perhaps he cannot. Her father—can he? Judging by his embarrassed air, it is doubtful.
Whispers pass from lip to ear—from group to group. There are surmises—many, but none spoken aloud. Even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings—filial as parental—and patiently await the éclaircissement.
“Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.” The young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. He is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of Cassius Calhoun. In his soul he thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.
“But, father!” protests the young lady, “why should I no wait for you? You are not going to stay here?” Yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. “It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”
Yancey’s confidence returns. Not quite. He knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience—even to the parental command.
It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.
The two ride off; the young planter taking the lead, his charge slowly following—the former scarce able to conceal his exultation, the latter her chagrin.