The old man stood silent a moment, then looked up with the mild eyes of an aged hound long privileged in honorable retirement.

“Is you sho’ a Ormond, suh?”

“Yes, Cato.”

“Might you come f’om de Spanish grants, suh, long de Halifax?”

“Yes, yes; but we are English now.  How did you know I came from the Halifax?”

“I knowed it, suh; I knowed h’it muss be dat-away!”

“How do you know it, Cato?”

“I spec’ you favor yo’ pap, suh, de ole Kunnel—­”

“My father!”

“Mah ole marster, suh; I was raised ’long Matanzas, suh.  Spanish man done cotch me on de Tomoka an’ ship me to Quebec.  Ole Suh William Johnsing, he done buy me; Suh John, he done sell me; Mars Varick, he buy me; an’ hyah ah is, suh—­heart dess daid foh de Halifax san’s.”

He bent his withered head and laid his face on my hands, but no tear fell.

After a moment he straightened, snuffled, and smiled, opening his lips with a dry click.

“H’it’s dat-a-way, suh.  Ole Cato dess ’bleged to fix up de young marster.  Pride o’ fambly, suh.  What might you be desirin’ now, Mars’ Ormond?  One li’l drap o’ musk on yoh hanker?  Lawd save us, but you sho’ is gallus dishyere day!  Spec’ Miss Dorry gwine blink de vi’lets in her eyes.  Yaas, suh.  Miss Dorry am de only one, suh; de onliest Ormond in dishyere fambly.  Seem mos’ lak she done throw back to our folk, suh.  Miss Dorry ain’ no Varick; Miss Dorry all Ormond, suh, dess lak you an’ me!  Yaas, suh, h’its dat-a-way; h’it sho’ is, Mars’ Ormond.”

I drew a deep, quivering breath.  Home seemed so far, and the old slave would never live to see it.  I felt as though this steel-cold North held me, too, like a trap—­never to unclose.

“Cato,” I said, abruptly, “let us go home.”

He understood; a gleam of purest joy flickered in his eyes, then died out, quenched in swelling tears.

He wept awhile, standing there in the centre of the room, smearing the tears away with the flapping sleeves of his tarnished livery, while, like a committed panther, I paced the walls, to and fro, to and fro, heart aching for escape.

The light in the west deepened above the forests; a long, glowing crack opened between two thunderous clouds, like a hint of hidden hell, firing the whole sky.  And in the blaze the crows winged, two and two, like witches flying home to the infernal pit, now all ablaze and kindling coal on coal along the dark sky’s sombre brink.

Then the red bars faded on my wall to pink, to ashes; a fleck of rosy cloud in mid-zenith glimmered and went out, and the round edges of the world were curtained with the night.

Behind me, Cato struck flint and lighted two tall candles; outside the lawn, near the stockade, a stable-lad set a conch-horn to his lips, blowing a deep, melodious cattle-call, and far away I heard them coming—­tin, ton! tin, ton! tinkle!—­through the woods, slowly, slowly, till in the freshening dusk I smelled their milk and heard them lowing at the unseen pasture-bars.