The boy opened his mouth, but his courage failed him, and with his courage went the words he would have spoken.

“Who is this?” asked Bladen.

“I’ll tell, you presently,” said Crenshaw.  “Come, speak up, sonny, what do you want?”

“Please, sir, I want this here old spo’tin’ rifle,” said:  the child.  “Please, sir, I want to keep it,” he added.

“Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo’tin’ rifle!” said Crenshaw good-naturedly.

“Please, sir, am I to keep it?”

“Yes, I reckon you may keep it—­least I’ve no objection.”  Crenshaw glanced at Bladen.

“Oh, by all means,” said the latter.  Spasms of delight shook the small figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the room, closing the door.  Bladen glanced inquiringly at Crenshaw.

“You want to know about him, sir?  Well, that’s Hannibal Wayne Hazard.”

“Hannibal Wayne Hazard?” repeated Bladen.

“Yes, sir; the general was the authority on that point, but who Hannibal Wayne Hazard is and how he happens to be at the Barony is another mystery—­just wait a minute, sir—­” and quitting his chair Mr. Crenshaw hurried from the room to return almost immediately with a tall countryman.  “Mr. Bladen, this is Bob Yancy.  Bob, the gentleman, wants to hear about the woman and the child; that’s your story.”

“Howdy, sir,” said Mr. Yancy.  He appeared to meditate on the mental effort that was required of him, then he took a long breath.  “It was this a-ways—­” he began with a soft drawl, and then paused.  “You give me the dates, Mr. John, fo’ I disremember.”

“It was four year ago come next Christmas,” said Crenshaw.

“Old Christmas,” corrected Mr. Yancy.  “Our folks always kept the old Christmas like it was befo’ they done mussed up the calendar.  I’m agin all changes,” added Mr. Yancy.

“He means the fo’teenth of December,” explained Mr. Crenshaw.

“Not wishin’ to dispute your word, Mr. John, I mean Christmas,” objected Yancy.

“Oh, very well, he means Christmas then!” said Crenshaw.

“The evening befo’, it was, and I’d gone to Fayetteville to get my Christmas fixin’s; there was right much rain and some snow falling.”  Mr. Yancy’s guiding light was clearly accuracy.  “Just at sundown I hooked up that blind mule of mine to the cart and started fo’ home.  As I got shut of the town the stage come in and I seen one passenger, a woman.  Now that mule is slow, Mr. John; I’m free to say there are faster mules, but a set of harness never went acrost the back of a slower critter than that one of mine.”  Yancy, who thus far had addressed himself to Mr. Crenshaw, now turned to Bladen.  “That mule, sir, sees good with his right eye, but it’s got a gait like it was looking fo’ the left-hand side of the road and wondering what in thunderation had got into it that it was acrost the way; mules are gifted with some sense, but mighty little judgment.”