A curious change had come over the demeanour 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 towards the outskirts of the crowd, heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside. His eyes flashed fire upon the yokels scurrying 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 round 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 good will. 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 wit. You take me, kind sir? But I detain you; your ears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friend yonder; without more ado then, good night!" [Sidenote: A Gloved Hand] And turning on his heel, waving his gloved hand in salutation, the stranger went his way. The lad watched him wonderingly. For all his shabbiness he appeared a gentleman. His speech was clean cut, his accent pure; yet in his tone, as in his dress, there was something unusual, a touch of the theatrical, strange to that old sleepy town. He hoisted the negro into the cart, then mounted to his place beside the driver, and the vehicle rumbled away.