“Go away, Ptoly,” said the judge. “Now then,” added he, turning to Bob, “say what you have to say; but mind, nobody forces you to do it, and it’s only out of good-will that I listen to you, for to-day’s Sunday.”
“I know that,” muttered Bob; “I know that, squire; but it leaves me no peace, and it must out. I’ve been to San Felipe de Austin, to Anahuac, everywhere, but it’s all no use. Wherever I go, the spectre follows me, and drives me back under the cursed Patriarch.”
“Under the Patriarch!” exclaimed the judge.
“Ay, under the Patriarch!” groaned Bob. “Don’t you know the Patriarch—the old live oak near the ford, on the Jacinto?”
“I know, I know!” answered the judge. “And what drives you under the Patriarch?”
“What drives me? What drives a man who—who——”
“A man who——” repeated the judge gently.
“A man,” continued Bob, in the same low tone, “who has sent a rifle bullet into another’s heart. He lies there, under the Patriarch, whom I——”
“Whom you?” asked the judge.
“Whom I killed!” said Bob, in a hollow whisper.