Allerton was sitting in his cell, in an attitude of dejection that would have been a grateful sight to the crowd outside. He was a slim-waisted, broad-shouldered, gentle-mannered young fellow, whose dark eyes were very bright, and whose dark hair was curly, and longer than hair is usually worn by Northerners not studying football at the universities. He had a mildly Roman profile and a frank smile. His clothes seemed almost shabby to Amos, who never grudged a dollar of his tailor’s bills; but the little Southern village whence he came was used to admire that glossy linen and that short-skirted black frock-coat. At Amos’s greeting he ran forward excitedly. “Are they coming?” he cried. “Say, sheriff, you’ll give me back my pistol if they come; you’ll give me a show for my life?” Amos shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Your life’s all right,” said he; “it’s how to keep from hurting the other fellows I’m after. The fire department will turn out and sozzle ’em well, and if that won’t do they will have to face the soldiers; but I hope to the Lord your aunt won’t let it come to that.” “Do you think my aunt is living?” “I don’t see how she could be burned up so completely. But see here, Mr. Allerton, wasn’t there no trap-door in the room?” “No, sir; there was no carpet on the floor; she hadn’t a carpet in the house. Besides, how could she, sick as she was, get down through a trap-door and shut it after her? And you could _see_ the boards, and there was no opening in them.” “So Mrs. O’Shea says, too,” mused the sheriff; “but let’s go back. Had your aunt any motive for trying to escape you?” “I’m afraid she thought she had,” said the young man, gravely. “Mind telling me?” “No, sir. I reckon you don’t know my aunt was crazy?” “I’ve had some such notion. She lost her mind when they all died of yellow-fever—or was it when Colonel Cary was killed?” “I don’t know precisely. I imagine that she was queer after his death, and all the family dying later, that finished the wreck. There were some painful circumstances connected with the colonel’s death—” “I’ve heard them.” “Yes, sir. Well, sir, my mother was not to blame—not so much to blame as you may think. She was almost a stranger to her sister, raised in another State; and she had never seen her or Colonel Cary, her betrothed; and when she did see him—well, sir, my mother was a beautiful, daring, brilliant girl, and poor Aunt Margaret timid and awkward. _She_ broke the engagement, not Cary.” “It was to see your mother he came to the plantation!”