what he had done there. With a perverse squeamishness beyond Gender’s understanding, the hearers were filled with disgust instead of admiration. Captain Hogue had refused to drink with him at the Jefferson House. His oldest friend, Mr. Lloyd Davis of Davis Township, had crossed the street to avoid meeting him. Even the Reverend Doctor Lockin had turned coldly away as he passed, and it was said that a sermon was forthcoming at Doctor Lockin’s church attacking despoilers and abductors of defenseless people.
What was the matter with everybody? savagely demanded Gender of himself; these men who snubbed and avoided him were slave-holders. Some of them, it was quite possible, even held slaves fresh from raided villages under the Equator. Unfair! ... Yet he could not but feel the animosity of many hearts, chafing and weighing upon his spirit.
“Brutus,” he addressed the slave that cleared the table, “do you believe that hate can take form?”
“Hate, Marsa?” The sooty face was solemnly respectful.
“Yes. Hate, of many people together.” Gender knew he should not confide too much in a slave, and chose his words carefully. “Suppose a lot of people hated the same thing, maybe they sang a song about it—”
“Oh, yes, Marsa,” Brutus nodded. “I heah ’bout dat, from ole gran-pappy when I was little. He bin in Affiky, he says many times day sing somebody to deff.”
“Sing somebody to death?” repeated Gender. “How?”
“Dey sing dat dey kill him. Afta while, maybe plenty days, he die—”
“Shut up, you black rascal!” Gender sprang from his chair and clutched at a bottle. “You’ve heard about this somewhere, and you dare to taunt me!”
Brutus darted from the room, mortally frightened. Gender almost pursued, but thought better and tramped into his parlor. The big, brown-paneled room seemed to give back a heavier echo of his feet. The windows were filled with the early darkness, and a hanging lamp threw rays into the corners.
On the center table lay some mail, a folded newspaper and a letter. Gender poured whisky from a decanter, stirred in spring water, and dropped into a chair. First he opened the letter.
“Stirling Manor,” said the return address at the top of the page. Gender’s heart twitched. Evelyn Stirling, he had hopes of her . . . but this was written in a masculine hand, strong and hasty.
“Sir:
“Circumstances that have come to my knowledge compel me, as a matter of duty, to command that you discontinue your attentions to my daughter.”
Gender’s eyes took on the pale tint of rage. One more result of the Britisher’s letter, he made no doubt.
“I have desired her to hold no further communication with you, and I have been sufficiently explicit to convince her how unworthy you are of her esteem and attention. It is hardly necessary for me to give you the reasons which have induced me to form this judgment, and I add only that nothing you can say or do will alter it.
“Your obedient servant,
“Judge Forrester Stirling.”
Gender hastily swigged a portion of his drink, and crushed the paper in his hand. So that was the judge’s interfering way—it sounded as though he had copied it from a complete letter-writer for heavy fathers. He, Gender, began to form a reply in his mind:
“Your unfeeling and abitrary letter admits of but one response. As a gentleman grossly
misused, I demand satisfaction on the field