He made only a few gestures as he spoke, and even then, the expression of his face and the movement of his hands were perfectly attuned to the subject. There was nothing theatrical; one saw and understood the general effect only. There was no time for any criticism or thought. The words came in a constant flowing sound and through them the magnetism of the man glowed, reaching each listener with an irresistible force that drew him with a surrendering of beliefs, of convictions, of desires, often even against his personal wish. His face, illumined by the inward fire of his imagination, grew steadily in beauty and nobility, until it became fascinating with the brilliance of the thoughts reflected through it. His well moulded features, showing clear-cut and perfect in the ivory whiteness which had recently come to them, drew even those who did not understand the wonderful flow of words; indeed, in all his speeches this look of idealism was ever uppermost—an expression which none of the portrait painters of his day were able to reproduce. When he realized that the attention of the audience was his, he paused. Then, with renewed energy, he plunged deeper into his subject, and was reaching the height to which his forensic talent swept him, when an incident on the outskirts of the crowd caught his attention. Some one had just ridden up on a horse and was trying to force his way through the crowd. Evidently there was resistance on the part of the listeners and voices were raised in protest against the newcomer's insistence. Then, several men pushed aside and made a path for the man, and Sargent saw a negro making his way slowly through the crowd towards him. As he drew nearer he recognized Jonas. Climbing up the ladder to the platform the negro did not hesitate one moment until he had thrust a letter into-Sargent's hand.
Sargent stopped in the midst of the speech and looked at Jonas, half frowning, half smiling at the negro's temerity in reaching him through the crowd.
"Marse Sargent, please sah, read dat lettah—right now, sah! Hit's a mattah ob life an' death, sah!"
Sargent turned back to his audience, smiling. "One moment, please," he said, laughing down into the sea of upturned expectant faces, "I think my opponents have put up some joke on me. I want to read it to you and then we can laugh over it together." Then he tore open the letter indifferently.
"Lawdy, I sho wuz glad ter heah yer voice, Marse Sargent. I'se been er gwine ober dis heah kentry fer three days er sarchin' fer yer. Ole Dicey tole me fer ter git out on de road an' fin' yer an' ter gib yer dis heah lettah. She done said hit wuz a mattah ob life an' death," Jonas ended panting, looking around on the crowd and grinning with the success of his quest.
Sargent did not hear his words. At the first glance at the handwriting he had started. While he read the crowd waited breathlessly. When he had finished he turned to Colonel Pickram, his face flushed deeply, his words coming with a rush.
"Colonel Pickram, I want your fastest horse. I must be in Natchez by Sunday."
"Of course you can have anything I've got. Has anything happened?"
"Yes—a great deal—for me."
Colonel Pickram noted the strangely flushed face and was more deeply puzzled than ever.