"Do you see anybody?" he asked, looking hard toward her door. "No, but I hear you talking." "But isn't it possible for a man to talk to himself? Please go to sleep." Then he came back to me and said: "Go on to bed, Dan. And, see here," he added as I turned about, "don't get up any more when you hear me walking." I hesitated a moment, looking at him, and then I asked: "Master, did you kill a man?" He leaped toward me. "Who told you that? Come back here!" I had started to run away. "Come here to me. I'm not going to hurt you." He laid a tight hand upon my arm. "Why? Who said anything about my killing a man?" "I don't know, sir," I answered honestly. "I don't know who said it, but I thought you did. I believe I dreamed it. Did you kill a man?" I can see him now as he stood in the dim light, tall, frail, majestic, his old eyes bright, his white hair glistening. He cast a swift glance toward his bed-room door, and then leading me with him, stepped into my room. I heard the window curtain rustle--he was feeling about in the dark for a seat--and then he sat down upon the window ledge. I stood beside him, pressed close against his knee. "Don't ever speak of such a thing again," he said, "but I did kill a man--in this room. Are you scared?" "No, sir," I answered. "Tell me about it." It was some time before he spoke again. I heard Bob's gentle breathing. "Have you ever noticed deep marks on the stairs out there?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "The prints of a horse's shoes?" he said. And then after a silence, asked: "Do you think that I have been drinking to-night?" "No, sir." "Little liar you, you know I have." "But tell me about the man and the marks on the stairs?" "Hush! was that your mistress calling me? Wait a moment." I waited for him to continue, scarcely able to keep from trembling against his knee. "Would you think that a man could ride up those stairs?" he asked. "No, sir." "But a man did. I had said that I was going to horse-whip him, and one day when I lay sick in bed, he came, drunk, and rode up the stairs to my room--this room--to make me eat my words. I heard a terrible racket, and the next thing I knew a horse's head was poked through the door. I thought the devil had come. But the next moment I saw my enemy, standing in his stirrups, looking down on me. He held a pistol in his hand and he snapped it at me. I rolled out of bed, just as he fired, and grabbed a gun and killed him. He fell forward, and his horse took fright and wheeled about for the door. The man--his name was Solomon Putnam--fell to one side as the horse plunged, but his foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged away--dragged to his own gate. The law cleared me, and I know that I was right, but sometimes I see that man, hanging to the stirrup, with the blood streaming out of his mouth. I'm not afraid--I'd do it over again. But I can't sleep when I see him." The door creaked. "General!" It was the voice of Old Miss. "Madam, what do you want?"