“Is he dead?”
“Nor, suh, he ain’ dead yet; but de Doctor say he ain’ got much show. Ef he hadn’t happened to git dyah pretty soon after he was shot, he’d been dead pretty soon.”
“Thank God!”
Jacquelin had felt like a murderer. The thought of Blair, stricken in the moment of her joy, came to him like a stab in his heart. His heart gave a bound that he was able to rejoice that Middleton was not dead.
Old Gideon was giving particulars.
“Some thinks ’twas dem Ku Kluxes—some dat dee wuz after somebody else, whoever ’twuz. I don’ know who ’twuz,” he asserted, with manifest veracity. “But I sholy don’ ’prove of folkes’ shootin’ ’roun’ at folks dataway, dat I don’t! Dee done sen’ for Mr. Welch and de Capt’n at the cote-house.”
When Jacquelin reached Dr. Cary’s he was met by Blair, white-faced and tearful.
He walked straight up to her and held out his hand.
“Blair.” His voice had all the old tenderness. The lover had disappeared. It was only the old, old friend—the brother.
“Oh! Jacquelin!” And she burst into tears.