ht, perhaps in Dagmar's bright room which had
always been scented, warm, remote----

He had been reciting, of course, in French. Now he broke abruptly into
English. No one but the American Negro understood. The proprietor
shouted: "Hi, there, Pilleux--no gibberish!" The woman, her eyes on
Grimshaw's face, said warningly: "Ssh! He speaks English. He is
clever, this poet! Pay attention." And the Negro, startled, jerked his
drunken body straight and listened.

I don't know what Grimshaw said. It must have been a poem of home, the
bitter longing of an exile for familiar things. At any rate, the Negro
was touched--he was a Louisianian, a son of New Orleans. He saw the
gentleman, where you and I, perhaps, would have seen only a maudlin
savage. There is no other explanation for the thing that happened....

The Gascon, it seems, hated poetry. He tipped over Grimshaw's glass,
spilling the wine into the woman's lap. She leaped back, trembling
with rage, swearing in the manner of her kind.

"Quiet," Grimshaw said. And her fury receded before his glance; she
melted, acquiesced, smiled. Then Grimshaw smiled, too, and putting the
glass to rights with a leisurely gesture, said, "Cabbage. Son of pig,"
and flipped the dregs into the Gascon's face.

The fellow groaned and leaped. Grimshaw didn't stir--he was too drunk
to protect himself. But the Negro saw what was in the Gascon's hand.
He kicked back his chair, stretched out his arms--too late. The
Gascon's knife, intended for Grimshaw, sliced into his heart. He
coughed, looked at the man he had saved with a strange questioning,
and collapsed.

Grimshaw was sobered instantly. They say that he broke the Gascon's
arm before the crowd could separate them. Then he knelt down by the
dying Negro, turned him gently over and lifted him in his arms,
supporting that ugly bullet head against his knee. The Negro coughed
again, and whispered: "I saw it comin', boss." Grimshaw said simply:
"Thank you."

"I'm scared, boss."

"That's all right. I'll see you through."

"I'm dyin', boss."

"Is it hard?"

"Yessir."

"Hold my hand. That's right. Nothing to be afraid of."

The Negro's eyes fixed themselves on Grimshaw's face--a sombre look
came into their depths. "I'm goin', boss."

Grimshaw lifted him again. As he did so, he was conscious of feeling
faint and dizzy. The Negro's blood was warm on his hands and wrists,
but it was not wholly that--He had a sensation of rushing forward; of
p