“Ha!” said Major Edward, but not loudly.

The sheriff spoke again.  “Mr. Fairfax Cary, we’ve got a kind of litter here, made of branches, and we’d best be going on.  The sooner the law has its hand on this, the better.  Shall we lift him now, sir?”

All were by this time gathered about the form on the earth, and the throng at the edge of the wood had also come nearer.  Fairfax Cary, who had looked at each speaker in turn, now again bent his eyes upon his brother.  That still figure, so fixed, so uncaring in the midst of harsh emotion, had apparently no accusation to make, was there only to state the all-inclusive fact, “I am in death, who, yesterday, could move and speak, could feel joy and grief, like you and these.”

The little knot of men, who had been gazing at the dead as at the chief actor in a drama, began to look, instead, at Fairfax Cary, and to look the more steadily for their first glance.  They saw a curious thing; they witnessed a transformation.  Had he, like Proteus, slipped before their eyes into another shape, the vital change had hardly been more marked.  He had been, even this morning, a young man, handsome and gallant, with a bright eye, a most happy manner, a charm and spirit wholly admirable.  All Albemarle knew and liked him under that aspect.  The men about him had seen grief and horror and rage, each exhibited strongly out of a strong nature.  They now saw, from out of youth and the war of emotions, the man emerge.  He came slowly but steadfastly, a man with a set purpose, which he was like to pursue through life.  The growth of years took place almost at once, though not the growth that would have been but for this releasing stroke.  Latencies in the backward and abysm of inheritance that would not have stirred under a less tremendous stimulus stirred under this, grew, and pushed aside the gay and even life that might have been.  The growth was rapid and visible, as visible the sharp turn from every former shining goal to one which, an hour before, the runner had not seen.  The men who watched him somewhat held their breath.

The change that was wrought was profound.  The man who was stretched upon the earth looked now the younger of the two.  He seemed also to have given something of the calmness of his state, for Fairfax Cary no longer grieved with voice or gesture or convulsion of feature.  He was quiet, pale, and resolute, and he now spoke to the sheriff evenly enough.  “Yes, Mr. Garrett, we’ll take him home.  Where is the litter?”

Four men brought it forward.  Ludwell Cary was lifted by his brother and Colonel Churchill and laid reverently upon the stretcher of branches where the green leaves nodded above his quiet face.  The little procession formed and, with the younger Cary walking beside the litter, crossed the shallow ford and moved slowly up the winding river road.

CHAPTER XXXIII

GREENWOOD