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Page 50
He spoke slowly and precisely, like one moving with an excess of
care.
My father went on, his voice strong and level, his eyes on
Zindorf.
"The thing is a great mystery," he said. "It is not clear to any
of us in its causes or its relations. But old legends and old
beliefs, running down from the very morning of the world, tell us
- warn us, Zindorf - that the signs of each of these masters are
abhorrent to the other. Neither will tolerate the use of his
adversary's sign. Moreover, Zindorf, there is a double peril in
it."
And his voice rose.
"There is the peril that the new master will abandon the
blunderer for the insult, and there is the peril that the old one
will destroy him for the sacrilege!"
At this moment the door behind Zindorf opened, and the young girl
entered. She was excited and her eyes danced.
"Oh!" she said, "people are coming on every road!"
She looked, my father said, like a painted picture, her dark
Castilian beauty illumined by the pleasure in her interpretation
of events. She thought the countryside assembled after the
manner of my father to express its felicitations.
Zindorf crossed in great strides to the window: Mr. Lucian
Morrow, sober and overwhelmed by the mystery of events about him,
got unsteadily on his feet, holding with both hands to the oak
back of a chair.
My father said that the tragedy of the thing was on him, and he
acted under the pressure of it.
"My child," he said, "you are to go to the house of your
grandfather in Havana. If Mr. Lucian Morrow wishes to renew his
suit for your hand in marriage, he will do it there. Go now and
make your preparations for the journey."
The girl cried out in pleasure at the words.
"My grandfather is a great person in New Spain. I have always
longed to see him . . . father promised . . . and now I am to go
. . . when do we set out, Meester Pendleton?"
"At once," replied my father, "to-day." Then he crossed the room
and opened the door for her to go out. He held the latch until
the girl was down the stairway. Then he closed the door.
The big man, falsely in his aspect, like a monk, looking out at
the far-off figures on the distant roads, now turned about.
"A clever ruse, Pendleton," he said, "We can send her now, on
this pretended journey, to Morrow's house, after the sale."
My father went over and sat down at the table. He took a faded
silk envelope out of his, coat, and laid it down before him.
Then he answered Zindorf.
"There will be no sale," he said.
Mr. Lucian Morrow interrupted.
"And why no sale, Sir?"
"Because there is no slave to sell," replied my father. "This
girl is not the daughter of the octoroon woman, Suzanne."
Zindorf's big jaws tightened.
"How did you know that?" he said.
My father answered with deliberation.
"I would have known it," he said, "from the wording of the paper
you exhibit from Marquette's executors. It is merely a release
of any claim or color of title; the sort of legal paper one
executes when one gives up a right or claim that one has no faith
in. Marquette's executors were the ablest lawyers in New
Orleans. They were not the men to sign away valuable property in
a conveyance like that; that they did sign such a paper is
conclusive evidence to me that they had nothing - and knew they
had nothing - to release by it." He paused.
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