The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

At this the clamour was renewed, the crowd pressing in again—and I half started from my hiding-place. But again the Colonel persuaded them to silence, and again he directed his remarks to Gordon He was evidently saying something about the relation of the races.

Then came Gordon's thunderbolt: "It seems to me," he cried hotly, recklessly, "it seems to me you couldn't have much more fusion than you have already—this negro's half white himself;" which proved more, as I knew it would, than any Southern man would stand.

"Then you can take what you deserve, curse you for a nigger-lover," I heard the Colonel retort madly, his voice lost in the roar of hate, the wild outcry for vengeance that burst from the infuriated crowd. All resistance was now swept away, and a few ringleaders at the front fairly clutched at Gordon. One had him by the throat, the others pressing in upon him with wolfish fury gleaming in their eyes.

But before their purpose—what it was I know not, nor probably did they—before it could be carried out, another rushed to the grim theatre. It was my Uncle Henry, his hat gone, lost somewhere in the crowd. He leaped to where Gordon stood, and at his presence the men fell back.

"You shan't injure this man," he shouted hoarsely. "Not that I contend he doesn't deserve it—but he's my guest," the word echoing clear. "He's my guest," uncle repeated, for he knew the magic of the word; "he's a stranger amongst us—and an ignorant stranger at that. I'll take the fool home," he went on, casting at Gordon one of the most contemptuous glances I ever saw from human eyes, "and I'll deal with him myself. I'll promise you to deal with him—he's my guest. And you shall do as you please with the nigger."

I think the storm abated for a moment. Perhaps it would have subsided altogether, for stranger is a sacred name to Southern ears. But suddenly Colonel Mitford, still ashy pale with wrath, shouted to the crowd:

"He said they couldn't have more white blood in them than they've got—he said we're blended now," the words ending in a half snarl, half cry; for if there is anything under God's sky that makes Southern men drunk with fury it is just such a statement as Gordon had been rash enough to make.

Some one else shouted a confirmation of the Colonel's words, another added something Gordon had never said; and slowly, relentlessly, the crowd surged in again upon him. My uncle was rudely flung aside—I could hear his voice in protest through the storm. Then, exactly what I feared, some of the assassins, more maddened than the rest, jerked the rope from the negro's neck and flung it with a loud cry over Gordon's head. This was to the crowd what the taste of blood is to the tiger, and a fiendish yell broke from a hundred throats. It is not likely they really meant to kill him—but no one could forecast the limit of their violence.

I wouldn't have cared if there had been a million men and every man a Nero. I didn't will to do it, I didn't know I was doing it, didn't calculate what it meant at all. But I just felt I was stronger than them all, and that it was now or never. So, without word or cry, I sprang from behind that ancient elm and leaped to where Gordon stood. I could never remember that I pushed or elbowed through the crowd; I don't believe I did. There seemed to be an open path for me, and in far less time than it takes to tell I was at his side. I remember how close I was—so close that I caught the gleam of that awful negro's eyes and felt his breath upon my cheek as he panted in prospect of his doom. And in a flash I had torn that rope from Gordon's neck, flung it on the ground, stamped on it, as I turned and hurled defiance at the crowd in one long look that I felt myself was all of fire. Then I took Gordon's hand in mine, pointing silently towards the house. He followed me, and uncle walked behind.

I don't think the slightest resistance was offered us. The only protest was from Gordon himself. He would have lingered, had he had his way. But some word of mine—I know not what—settled that mad purpose in his mind; and he walked beside me, towering still, his head more erect, his bearing more kingly, than that of any of the throng who turned scornful eyes upon him as we went.