But Sir John Johnson, in his way, was as slow to mortal quarrel as was I in mine. And whatever suspicion of me he might nurse in his secret mind he now made no outward sign of it.
Also, other people were coming across the grass to join us; and presently grave greetings were exchanged in sober voices suitable to the occasion when a considerable company of ladies and gentlemen are gathered at a house of mourning.
Turning away, I noticed Mr. Duncan and the Highland officers at the magazine, all wearing their black badges of respect and a knot of crape on the basket-hilts of their claymores; and young Walter Butler, still stiff in his bandages, gazing up at the June sky out of melancholy eyes, like a damned man striving to see God.
Sir John had now given his arm to his lady. His left hand rested on his sword-hilt—the same left hand he had offered to poor Claire Putnam—and to which the child still clung, they said.
Claudia turned from Billy Alexander and came toward me. Her face was serious, but I saw the devil looking out of her blue eyes.
Nature had given this maid most lovely proportions—that charming slenderness which is plumply moulded—and she stood straight, and tall enough, too, to meet on a level the love-sick gaze of any stout young man she had bedevilled; and she wore a most bewitching countenance—short-nosed, red-lipped, a skin as white as a water-lily, and thick soft hair as black as night, which she wore unpowdered—the dangerous jade!
"Jack," says she in honeyed tones, "are you truly designing to become a hermit?"
"Oh, no," said I, smilingly, "only a farmer, Claudia."
"Why?"
"Because I am a poor man and must feed and clothe myself."