ugh
I realized the futility of the question.

"Thought you was--mad at me," he answered, "but you ain't, Davy. You've
been very good-natured t' let me have your drum." He straightened. "I am
ver' much obliged."

"And where were you before you went to Nashville?" I said.

"Charleston, 'Napolis... Philadelphia... everywhere," he answered.

"Now," said he, "'mgoin' t' bed."

I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carry
it out. However, I conducted him to the back room, where he sat himself
down on the edge of my four-poster, and after conversing a little
longer on the subject of Mr. Jackson (who seemed to have gotten upon his
brain), he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on.
For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so strongly
within me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face. Spare and
handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in its
relaxation. Would that relentless spirit with which he had been born
make him, too, a wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fates
which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other man
I loved, George Rogers Clark?

I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle took from my
portfolio a packet of letters. Two of them I had not read, having found
them only on my return from Philadelphia that morning. They were all
signed simply "Sarah Temple," they were dated at a certain number in the
Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy in that which it had
left unsaid. There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing at
fate; the letters breathed but the one hope,--that her son might come
again to that happiness of which she had robbed him. There were in all
but twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had nearly deprived
the lady of the use of her right hand. I read them twice over, and
then, despite the lateness of the hour, I sat staring at the candles,
reflecting upon my own helplessness. I was startled from this revery by
a knock. Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking I
had to do with some drunken reveller who might be noisy. The knock was
repeated. I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night.

"I saw dat light," said a voice which I recognized; "I think I come in
to say good night."

I opened the door, and he walked in.

"You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie," he said.

"And you seem to prefer the