A spasm of pain passed over the judge’s face.

“I—­I’ve heard it.  The name is on the rifle, you say?”

“Here on the stock, yes.”

The judge took the gun and examined it in silence.

“Where did you get this rifle, Hannibal?” he at length asked brokenly.

“I fetched it away from the Barony, sir; Mr. Crenshaw said I might have it.”

The judge gave a great start, and a hoarse inarticulate murmur stole from between his twitching lips.

“The Barony—­the Barony—­what Barony?  The Quintard seat in North Carolina, is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

The judge, as though stunned, stared at Hannibal and stared at the rifle, where the rusted name-plate danced before his eyes.

“What do you know of the Barony, Hannibal?” the words came slowly from the judge’s lips, and his face had gone gray again.

“I lived at the Barony once, until Uncle Bob took me to Scratch Hill to be with him.  It were Mr. Crenshaw said I was to have the old sp’otin’ rifle,” said Hannibal.

“You—­you lived at the Barony?” repeated the judge, and a dull stupid wonder struck through his tone, he passed a shaking hand before his eyes.  “How long ago—­when?” he continued.

“I don’t know how long it were, but until Uncle Bob carried me away after the old general died.”

The judge slipped a hand under the child’s chin and tilted his face back so that he might look into it.  For a long moment he studied closely those small features, then with a shake of the head he handed the rifle to Carrington, and without a word strode forward.  Carrington had been regarding Hannibal with a quickened interest.

“Hello!” he said, as the judge moved off.  “You’re the boy I saw at Scratch Hill!”

Hannibal gave him a frightened glance, and edged to Mr. Mahaffy’s side, but did not answer him.

“What’s become of Bob Yancy?” Carrington went on.  He looked from Mahaffy to the judge; externally neither of these gentlemen was calculated to inspire confidence.  Mahaffy, keenly alive to this fact, returned Carrington’s glance with a fixed and hostile stare.  “Come—­” said Carrington good-naturedly, “you surely remember me?”

“Yes, sir; I reckon I do—­”

“Can’t you tell me about Mr. Yancy?”

“No, sir; I don’t know exactly where he is—­”

“But how did you get here?” persisted Carrington.

Suddenly Mahaffy turned on him.

“Don’t you see he’s with us?” he said truculently.

“Well, my dear sir, I certainly intended no offense!” rejoined Carrington rather hotly.

Mahaffy was plainly disturbed, the debased currency of his affection was in circulation where Hannibal was concerned, and he eyed the river-man askance.  He was prepared to give him the lie should he set up any claim to the boy.