“Marse Alec!” he said.

“Is your master at home?” said my father.

Without another word he led us through a deep hall, and out into a gallery above the trees of a back garden, where a gentleman sat smoking a long pipe.  The old negro stopped in front of him.

“Marse John,” said he, his voice shaking, “heah’s Marse Alec done come back.”

The gentleman got to his feet with a start.  His pipe fell to the floor, and the ashes scattered on the boards and lay glowing there.

“Alec!” he cried, peering into my father’s face, “Alec!  You’re not dead.”

“John,” said my father, “can we talk here?”

“Good God!” said the gentleman, “you’re just the same.  To think of it—­to think of it!  Breed, a light in the drawing-room.”

There was no word spoken while the negro was gone, and the time seemed very long.  But at length he returned, a silver candlestick in each hand.

“Careful,” cried the gentleman, petulantly, “you’ll drop them.”

He led the way into the house, and through the hall to a massive door of mahogany with a silver door-knob.  The grandeur of the place awed me, and well it might.  Boy-like, I was absorbed in this.  Our little mountain cabin would almost have gone into this one room.  The candles threw their flickering rays upward until they danced on the high ceiling.  Marvel of marvels, in the oval left clear by the heavy, rounded cornice was a picture.

The negro set down the candles on the marble top of a table.  But the air of the room was heavy and close, and the gentleman went to a window and flung it open.  It came down instantly with a crash, so that the panes rattled again.

“Curse these Rebels,” he shouted, “they’ve taken our window weights to make bullets.”

Calling to the negro to pry open the window with a walking-stick, he threw himself into a big, upholstered chair.  ’Twas then I remarked the splendor of his clothes, which were silk.  And he wore a waistcoat all sewed with flowers.  With a boy’s intuition, I began to dislike him intensely.

“Damn the Rebels!” he began.  “They’ve driven his Lordship away.  I hope his Majesty will hang every mother’s son of ’em.  All pleasure of life is gone, and they’ve folly enough to think they can resist the fleet.  And the worst of it is,” cried he, “the worst of it is, I’m forced to smirk to them, and give good gold to their government.”  Seeing that my father did not answer, he asked:  “Have you joined the Highlanders?  You were always for fighting.”

“I’m to be at Cherokee Ford on the twentieth,” said my father.  “We’re to scalp the redskins and Cameron, though ’tis not known.”

“Cameron!” shrieked the gentleman.  “But that’s the other side, man!  Against his Majesty?”

“One side or t’other,” said my father, “’tis all one against Alec Cameron.”

The gentleman looked at my father with something like terror in his eyes.