mself, dropped on the brick pier under the
groggery steps, where Levin Dennis sat, stupefied by the scene. A brick
in the pier was loose, and Milburn stepped towards it. In this small
interval the hardy stranger had recovered himself and staggered to his
feet, and had drawn a dirk-knife.

"The ruffian oly you!" he bellowed. "Knocked down! by a nigger, too!
Hell have you, then!"

As he darted forward, he described a rapid circle backward and downward
with the knife, aiming to turn it through Samson's bowels, which he
would have done--that valorous servant being without defence, and not so
much as a pebble of stone lying on the bare plain of the soil to give
him aid--had not Meshach, wresting the loose brick from the pier, aimed
it at the corresponding exposed portion of the assassin's body, and
struck him full in the pit of the stomach. The man's eyes rolled, and he
fell, like one stone-dead, his dirk sticking in the sidewalk.

"Let him lie there," said Meshach, contemptuously. "No danger of such a
dog dying! If there is time he shall mend in the jail. Take to your
buggy, boy, and keep out of the way."

The negro needed no warning, as the impiety of striking a white man was
forbidden in a larger book than the Bible--the book of ignorance. He
disappeared through the houses and was a mile out of Princess Anne,
driving fast, before the new man had raised his head from the ground.

"Where is the nigger?" he gasped, his paleface painted by his bloodshot
eyes. "What kind of coves are you to let a black bloke fight a white
man? I'll cut his heart out before I tip the town."

He looked around on the crew which had crossed over from the tavern;
Meshach had vanished in his store at the descent of the road. Jimmy
Phoebus was the only one to speak.

"Nigger buyer," he said, "if you are around this town from now till
midnight, or after midnight to-morrer, Sunday night, ole Meshach Milburn
will have you in that air jail till Spring. By smoke! he'll find out yer
aunty's cedents, whair you goin, whair you been, what's yer splurge, an
all yer hokey pokey. You've struck the Ark of the Lord this time--ole
Milburn's Entailed Hat! Take my advice an' travel!"

The man washed his face at the tavern pump, turned the bank corner, and
disappeared in the night towards Teackle Hall.

CHAPTER XIII.

SHADOW OF THE TILE.

As Vesta and her father stepped over the sill of Teackle Hall, it seemed
very dear, yet somewhat dread to them