Lindy braced herself up doggedly.
“Yo' ain't er-gwine to git in thar nohow, Marse Nick,” she said.
“Nonsense, Lindy,” he answered, “I've been in there as much as you have.” And he took hold of her thin arm and pulled her back.
“Marse Nick!” she cried, terror-stricken, “she'll done fin' out dat you've been er-talkin'.”
“Pish!” said Nick with a fine air, “who's afraid of her?”
Lindy's face took on an expression of intense amusement.
“Yo' is, for one, Marse Nick,” she answered, with the familiarity of an old servant. “I done seed yo' skedaddle when she comed.”
“Tut,” said Nick, grandly, “I run from no woman. Eh, Davy?” He pushed past the protesting Lindy into the room and took my hand.
“Egad, you have been near the devil's precipice, my son. A three-bottle man would have gone over.” In his eyes was all the strange affection he had had for me ever since we had been boys at Temple Bow together. “Davy, I reckon life wouldn't have been worth much if you'd gone.”
I did not answer. I could only stare at him, mutely grateful for such an affection. In all his wild life he had been true to me, and he had clung to me stanchly in this, my greatest peril. Thankful that he was here, I searched his handsome person with my eyes. He was dressed, as usual, with care and fashion, in linen breeches and a light gray coat and a filmy ruffle at his neck. But I thought there had come a change into his face. The reckless quality seemed to have gone out of it, yet the spirit and daring remained, and with these all the sweetness that was once in his smile. There were lines under his eyes that spoke of vigils.