“Yes, I’m going to keep New Orleans for myself; that’s a plum I’m going to pick with the help of a few friends, and I’d cheerfully hang for it afterward if I could destroy the city Old Hickory saved—­but I expect to quit the country in good time; with a river full of ships I shan’t lack for means of escape.”  His manner was cool and decided.  He possessed in an eminent degree the egotism that makes possible great crimes and great criminals, and his degenerate brain dealt with this colossal horror as simply as if it had been a petty theft.

“There’s no use in trying to talk you out of this, John, but I just want to ask you one thing:  you do all you say you are going to do, and then where in hell’s name will you be safe?”

“I’ll take my chances.  What have I been taking all my life but the biggest sort of chances?—­and for little enough!”

Ware, feeling the entire uselessness of argument, uttered a string of imprecations, and then fell silent.  His acquaintance with Murrell was of long standing.  It dated back to the time when he was growing into the management of Belle Plain.  A chance meeting with the outlaw in Memphis had developed into the closest intimacy, and the plantation had become one of the regular stations for the band of horse-thieves of which Murrell had spoken.  But time had wrought its changes.  Tom was now in full control of Belle Plain and its resources, and he had little heart for such risks as he had once taken.

“Well, how about the girl, Tom?” asked Murrell at length, in a low even tone.

“The girl?  Oh, Betty, you mean?” said Ware, and shifted uneasily in his seat.  “Haven’t you got enough on your hands without worrying about her?  She don’t like you, haven’t I told you that?  Think of some one else for a spell, and you’ll find it answers,” he urged.

“What do you think is going to happen here if I take your advice?  She’ll marry one of these young bloods!” Ware’s lips twitched.  “And then, Tom, you’ll get your orders to move out, while her husband takes over the management of her affairs.  What have you put by anyhow?—­enough to stock another place?”

“Nothing, not a damn cent!” said Ware.  Murrell laughed incredulously.  “It’s so!  I’ve turned it all over—­more lands, more niggers, bigger crops each year.  Another man might have saved his little spec, but I couldn’t; I reckon I never believed it would go to her, and I’ve managed Belle Plain as if I were running it for myself.”  He seemed to writhe as if undergoing some acute bodily pain.

“And you are in a fair way to turn it all over to her husband when she marries, and step out of here a beggar, unless—­”

“It isn’t right, John!  I haven’t had pay for my ability!  Why, the place would have gone down to nothing with any management but mine!”

“If she were to die, you’d inherit?”

Ware laughed harshly.

“She looks like dying, doesn’t she?”