The old colored man, Xenophon, approached at the same time,
leaning on a hickory stick and bent very far over, one hand resting on his
hip as if to ease a rusty joint. The negro's age was an incentive to
fable; from his appearance he might have known the prophets, and he wore
that hoary look of unearthly wisdom many decades of superstitious
experience sometimes give to members of his race. His face, so tortured
with wrinkles that it might have been made of innumerable black threads
woven together, was a living mask of the mystery of his blood. Harkless
had once said that Uncle Xenophon had visited heaven before Swedenborg and
hell before Dante. To-day, as he slowly limped over the ties, his eyes
were bright and dry under the solemn lids, and, though his heavy nostrils
were unusually distended in the effort for regular breathing, the deeply
puckered lips beneath them were set firmly.
He stopped and looked at the faces before him. When he spoke his voice was
gentle, and though the tremulousness of age harped on the vocal strings,
it was rigidly controlled. "Kin some kine gelmun," he asked, "please t'be
so good ez t' show de ole main whuh de W'ite-Caips is done shoot Marse
Hawkliss?"
"Here was where it happened, Uncle Zen," answered Wiley, leaning him
forward. "Here is the stain."
Xenophon bent over the spot on the sand, making little odd noises in his
throat.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200