et, elbowing each other, treading on each other's toes, yelling,
booing, forgetful of all save the strange coincidence that, on this
evening of all others, the banquet in honor of Clive, the Indian hero,
had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a live Indian in their
very midst.

A curious change had come over the demeanor of the stranger, who hitherto
had been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved. He was now to be
seen energetically forcing his way toward the outskirts of the crowd,
heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside. His eyes
flashed fire upon the yokels skurrying before him, a vitriolic stream of
abuse scorched their faces as he bore them down.

At length he stopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder,
and, with a violent twist and jerk, flung him headlong among his fellows.
Released from the man's grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, his
breast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, who
soothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, now
again pressing near.

"Back, you boobies!" he shouted. "'Tis my boy! If a man of you follows
me, I'll break his head for him."

He turned and, clasping the black boy's hand close in his, strode away
towards the waiting cart. The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by the
tall stranger's fierce mien. But one came out from among them, a slim boy
of some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the stranger and
had indeed assisted his progress. The rest, disappointed of their Indian
hunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy hastened on.
Hearing his quick footsteps, the man swung around with a snarl.

"I hope the boy isn't hurt," said the lad quietly. "Can I do anything for
you?"

The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien and
voice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of his
manner vanished, and he said:

"Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for your
goodwill. As you perceive, my withers are not wrung."

He waved his right hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was covered
from wrist to knuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove of
black velvet.

"The boy has taken no harm. Hic niger est, as Horace somewhere hath it;
and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder. Scipio is his
praenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his already by
nature--Africanus, to