The judge, as though stunned, stared at Hannibal and stared at the rifle, where the rusted name-plate danced before his eyes.
“What do you know of the Barony, Hannibal?” the words came slowly from the judge's lips, and his face had gone gray again.
“I lived at the Barony once, until Uncle Bob took me to Scratch Hill to be with him. It were Mr. Crenshaw said I was to have the old sp'otin' rifle,” said Hannibal.
“You—you lived at the Barony?” repeated the judge, and a dull stupid wonder struck through his tone, he passed a shaking hand before his eyes. “How long ago—when?” he continued.
“I don't know how long it were, but until Uncle Bob carried me away after the old general died.”
The judge slipped a hand under the child's chin and tilted his face back so that he might look into it. For a long moment he studied closely those small features, then with a shake of the head he handed the rifle to Carrington, and without a word strode forward. Carrington had been regarding Hannibal with a quickened interest.
“Hello!” he said, as the judge moved off. “You're the boy I saw at Scratch Hill!”
Hannibal gave him a frightened glance, and edged to Mr. Mahaffy's side, but did not answer him.
“What's become of Bob Yancy?” Carrington went on. He looked from Mahaffy to the judge; externally neither of these gentlemen was calculated to inspire confidence. Mahaffy, keenly alive to this fact, returned Carrington's glance with a fixed and hostile stare. “Come—” said Carrington good-naturedly, “you surely remember me?”
“Yes, sir; I reckon I do—”