"He's a perspicacious nigger," the Colonel chuckled. In a moment he spoke more soberly: "I've been in town every day, and have heard no single word about Potter. Do you suppose he's dead somewhere in the hills?" "Oh, no," Brent evasively answered. "He's all right. A shot at him would scare him away for a month. He has too much on his conscience." "Well, I shall persist," the old gentleman sighed. They were leaning back--just as two contented idlers in the shade; but each with a weight upon his heart to rob it of that needed peace which makes for perfect days. Yet, Brent could hardly now be called an idler. He had worked late the night before plotting his field notes, and the afternoon would be devoted to this same pursuit. Finally he said: "Suppose I had killed Tusk! Would you stand by me?" "Yes, sir," the old gentleman opened his eyes, "I would stand by you with a shot gun until I had the satisfaction of seeing you safely locked up in jail." A longer pause. "Assuming that I'd acted in self defense, would there be much of a stir about it?" "Hm," came the noncommital response, but this time with closed eyes, for the Master of Arden had passed the point of active interest. It was a morning to invite sleep. No leaf stirred, but the shaded air was fresh and comforting. Great cumulus clouds lazily, ponderously, glided across the sky, prototypes of nomadic wandering. Somewhere back by the stables a mellow farm bell proclaimed across the smiling fields the hour of noon; then negroes straightened up from the rows of young tobacco, stretched their tired backs, and in groups wandered toward a cool spring where their dinner buckets had been left. Yet it was some little while before the Colonel's midday meal. Again Brent asked (or perhaps he only thought, for thoughts have a knack of seeming loud to those at the threshold of Nod): "I wonder how it would feel to stop drinking and buckle all the way down?" No answer. "If she could only care for me--after I've wiped the bad spots out!" No answer. "But I'm such a pup--and what a devilishly sweet miracle she is!" Still no answer, so he may have been only thinking, after all. At any rate, the Colonel remained steeped in tranquil apathy. The messengers to the convent, returning somewhat late, caught sight of the men beneath the trees and went that way in order to bring them in for luncheon. But as they approached, Jane stopped. She saw the immaculately white pleated bosom of the Colonel's shirt bulging out to support his chin, which rested firmly and comfortably in it. Then her eyes went to Brent, occupying three chairs for himself and his legs, while one arm hung inertly to the ground and his head lolled back in childish abandon. She smiled. But this was not what had stopped her. By the hand of each of these sleeping men, in glaring, accusing sight, stood a julep goblet.