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"I'm your man, Colonel," says Jaggers, who is, strange to say, very expert in his line. The trouble with Jaggers is, the saloon is not near enough to Judge Hardin's office. The OFFICE should be in the SALOON. It would save useless walking. "I want you to search a title for me," says Colonel Joe, from behind a cloud of smoke. Jaggers sniffs the aroma. Joseph hands him several "Excepcionales."
Is she Cuban, Creole, French, Andalusian, Italian, or a wandering gypsy star? A jewelled dagger-sheath in her corsage speaks of Spain or Italy. Maxime notes the unaccustomed eagerness with which Hardin recklessly plays. He seems determined to attract the especial attention of the divinity of the hour. Hardin's color is unusual. His features are sternly set.
My proposition is, therefore, that we turn our attention at once to that point." There was a general murmur of assent. "The best course would be for Hardin's company to march direct to the other end of the tunnel, seize it, and prevent interference from that end; while the others then seize the Saverne end, and hold it while preparations are made for blowing it up.
Hardin's letters are acknowledgments of satisfactory news, and directions regarding the education of the child. He does not refer to the future of the woman who ruled his home so long. No tenderness for his own child appears. He is engrossed in BUSINESS, and she in PLEASURE. Avarice is the gentlemanly passion of his later years.
A letter from Philip Hardin arrives, in the gayest midwinter of a rejuvenated Paris. The time for decisive action has arrived. Natalie revolves every clause of Hardin's proposition in her mind. In less than a year the now blooming Isabel will be eighteen years of age. The accounting Hardin is trying now to cut the legal Gordian knot.
A costly sacrifice on the altar of Southern rights may be his fate at any moment. It is to comfort, not admonish, to pledge every friendly office, that the delicate-minded padre softens the blow. Later, the priest writes of the lonely child, whose tender youth wards off the blow of the rod of sorrow. Philip Hardin's letter mainly refers to the important business interests of the vast estate.
The telegraph flashes across the prairies, far beneath the Atlantic; the news of Villa Rocca's death arrives. Hardin's cable is brief. It is all-sufficient. Her trembling limbs give way. She reads: SAN FRANCISCO. Count Ernesto killed while visiting a mine, with friends. Accident of hoisting machinery. I was not there. Leave to-night for the place. Telegraph your wishes. Remain. Wait my reports.
"I did," Harris answers. "Then just write your name here as witness," Joseph briskly says, handing him a pen, and covering the few lines of the document, leaving only Philip Hardin's well-known signature visible. Harris hesitates. Joe's eyes are blazing; no foolery now! Harris quietly signs. The name of Joseph Woods is added, at once, with the date. "Harris," says Joseph, "you're a man of honor.
Hardin's dark face lights up: "Have you written Colonel Valois of this?" "Not a word," frankly says "Kaintuck." "Judge, I did not want to bring a swarm of squatters over our lines. I thought to tell you alone, and you could act with secrecy. If they stake off claims, we will have a rush on our hands." Hardin orders the strictest silence.
Since the new governor was a Whig, he could not be used by the Democrats. The bill met with bitter opposition, for it was alleged that it had no other purpose than to vacate Hardin's office for the benefit of Douglass.
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