would all delight to give.  But that situation rests upon the supposition that our gathering here was of a purely social or festive nature!  It may be,” continued the colonel with a blandly reflective air, “that the spectacle of these decanters and glasses, and the nectar furnished us by our Hebe-like hostess” (he lifted a glass of whiskey and water to his lips while he bowed to Mrs. Brant gracefully), “has led the gentleman to such a deduction.  But when I suggest to him that our meeting was of a business, or private nature, it strikes me that the question of intrusion may be fairly divided between him and ourselves.  We may be even justified, in view of that privacy, in asking him if his—­er—­entrance to this house was—­er—­coincident with his appearance among us.”

“With my front door in possession of strangers,” said Clarence, more in reply to a sudden contemptuous glance from his wife than Starbottle’s insinuation, “I entered the house through the window.”

“Of my boudoir, where another intruder once broke his neck,” interrupted his wife with a mocking laugh.

“Where I once helped this lady to regain possession of her house when it was held by another party of illegal trespassers, who, however, were content to call themselves ‘jumpers,’ and did not claim the privacy of gentlemen.”

“Do you mean to imply, sir,” began Colonel Starbottle haughtily, “that”—­

“I mean to imply, sir,” said Clarence with quiet scorn, “that I have neither the wish to know nor the slightest concern in any purpose that brought you here, and that when you quit the house you take your secrets and your privacy with you intact, without let or hindrance from me.”

“Do you mean to say, Mr. Brant,” said Judge Beeswinger, suppressing the angry interruption of his fellows with a dominant wave of his hand, as he fixed his eyes on Clarence keenly, “that you have no sympathy with your wife’s political sentiments?”

“I have already given you the information necessary to make you quit this house, and that is all you have a right to know,” returned Clarence with folded arms.

“But I can answer for him,” said Mrs. Brant, rising, with a quivering voice and curling lip.  “There is no sympathy between us.  We are as far apart as the poles.  We have nothing in common but this house and his name.”

“But you are husband and wife, bound together by a sacred compact.”

“A compact!” echoed Mrs. Brant, with a bitter laugh.  “Yes, the compact that binds South Carolina to the nigger-worshipping Massachusetts.  The compact that links together white and black, the gentleman and the trader, the planter and the poor white—­the compact of those united States.  Bah!  That has been broken, and so can this.”

Clarence’s face paled.  But before he could speak there was a rapid clattering at the gate and a dismounted vaquero entered excitedly.  Turning to Mrs. Brant he said hurriedly, “Mother of God! the casa is surrounded by a rabble of mounted men, and there is one among them even now who demands admittance in the name of the Law.”