"Well, run along back to bed."
"General," Old Miss called, "who's out there with you?"
"Do you see anybody?" he asked, looking hard toward her door.
"No, but I hear you talking."
"But isn't it possible for a man to talk to himself? Please go to sleep." Then he came back to me and said: "Go on to bed, Dan. And, see here," he added as I turned about, "don't get up any more when you hear me walking."
I hesitated a moment, looking at him, and then I asked: "Master, did you kill a man?"
He leaped toward me. "Who told you that? Come back here!" I had started to run away. "Come here to me. I'm not going to hurt you." He laid a tight hand upon my arm. "Why? Who said anything about my killing a man?"
"I don't know, sir," I answered honestly. "I don't know who said it, but I thought you did. I believe I dreamed it. Did you kill a man?"
I can see him now as he stood in the dim light, tall, frail, majestic, his old eyes bright, his white hair glistening. He cast a swift glance toward his bed-room door, and then leading me with him, stepped into my room. I heard the window curtain rustle—he was feeling about in the dark for a seat—and then he sat down upon the window ledge. I stood beside him, pressed close against his knee.
"Don't ever speak of such a thing again," he said, "but I did kill a man—in this room. Are you scared?"