He poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then, before I could interpose, he brought it down deftly through the head of my precious drum, and such a frightful, agonized squeal filled the room that even I shivered involuntarily, and for an instant I had a vivid vision of a pig struggling in the hands of a butcher.  I laughed in spite of myself.  But Nick regarded me soberly.

“Funny thing, Davy,” he said, “they all left the room.”  For a moment he appeared to be ruminating on this singular phenomenon.  Then he continued:  “‘N’ Jackson was back firsht, ‘n’ he was damned impolite.... ‘n’ he shook his fist in my face” (here Nick illustrated Mr. Jackson’s gesture), “‘n’ he said, ‘Great God, sir, y’ have a fine talent but if y’ ever do that again, I’ll—­I’ll kill you.’ . . .  That’sh what he said, Davy.”

“How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?” I asked.

“A year,” he said, “lookin’ after property I won rattle-an’-shnap—­you remember?”

“And why didn’t you let me know you were in Nashville?” I asked, though I realized the futility of the question.

“Thought you was—­mad at me,” he answered, “but you ain’t, Davy.  You’ve been very good-natured t’ let me have your drum.”  He straightened.  “I am ver’ much obliged.”

“And where were you before you went to Nashville?” I said.

“Charleston, ’Napolis . . .  Philadelphia . . . everywhere,” he answered.

“Now,” said he, “‘mgoin’ t’ bed.”

I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carry it out.  However, I conducted him to the back room, where he sat himself down on the edge of my four-poster, and after conversing a little longer on the subject of Mr. Jackson (who seemed to have gotten upon his brain), he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on.  For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so strongly within me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face.  Spare and handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in its relaxation.  Would that relentless spirit with which he had been born make him, too, a wanderer forever?  And was it not the strangest of fates which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other man I loved, George Rogers Clark?

I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle took from my portfolio a packet of letters.  Two of them I had not read, having found them only on my return from Philadelphia that morning.  They were all signed simply “Sarah Temple,” they were dated at a certain number in the Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy in that which it had left unsaid.  There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing at fate; the letters breathed but the one hope,—­that her son might come again to that happiness of which she had robbed him.  There were in all but twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had nearly deprived the lady of the use of her right hand.  I read them twice over, and then, despite the lateness of the hour, I sat staring at the candles, reflecting upon my own helplessness.  I was startled from this revery by a knock.  Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking I had to do with some drunken reveller who might be noisy.  The knock was repeated.  I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night.