Pausing at the door of a large, square room, from which voices proceeded, she invited us with a singularly graceful though formal courtesy to enter, smiling and pointing forward silently as she did so, and then, like Major Favraud, she turned and abandoned us at the door-sill, on which we stood riveted for a moment by the sound of a vibrant and eager voice speaking some never-to-be-forgotten words.

“For the slave is the coral-insect of the South,” said the voice within; “insignificant in himself, he rears a giant structure—­which will yet cause the wreck of the ship of state, should its keel grate too closely on that adamantine wall. ‘L’etat c’est moi,’ said Louis XIV., and that ‘slavery is the South’ is as true an utterance.  Our staple—­our patriarchal institution—­our prosperity—­are one and indissoluble, and the sooner the issue comes the better for the nation!”

Standing with his hand on the back of a chair near the casement-window of the large, low apartment, in close conversation with two other gentlemen, was the speaker of these remarkable words, which embraced the whole genius and policy of the South as it then existed, and which were delivered in those clear and perfectly modulated tones that bespeak the practised orator and the man of dominant energies.

I felt instinctively that I stood in the presence of one of the anointed princes of the earth—­felt it, and was thrilled.

“Do you know that gentleman, Marion?” I whispered, as we seated ourselves on the old-fashioned settle, or rather sofa, in one corner of the room, gazing admiringly, as I spoke, on the tall, slight figure, with its air of power and poise, that stood at some distance, with averted face.

“No, I have no idea who it is, or who are his companions either,” she replied; “unless”—­hesitating with scrutiny in her eyes—­

“His companions, I do not care to question of them!—­but that man himself—­the speaker—­has a sovereign presence!  Can it be possible—­”

The entrance of Major Favraud interrupted further conjecture, for at the sound of those emphatic boots the stranger turned, and for one moment the splendor of his large dark eyes, in their iron framing, met my own, then passed recognizingly on to rest on the face of Major Favraud, and advancing with extended hands, made more cordial by his voice and smile, he greeted him familiarly as “Victor.”

Major Favraud stood for a moment spell-bound—­then suddenly rushing forward, flung his hat to the floor, caught the hand of the stranger between his own and pressed it to his heart. (To his lips, I think, he would fain have lifted it, falling on one knee, perchance, at the same time, in a knightly fashion of hero-worship that modern reticence forbids.) But he contented himself with exclaiming: 

“Mr. Calhoun! best of friends, welcome back to Georgia!” And tears started to his eyes and choked his utterance.  Thus was my conjecture confirmed.  I never felt so thrilled, so elated, by any presence.