"He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi," said François Giron, touching his eyes with his handkerchief.
"There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever he comes for it," said old Leuba, clearing his throat.
"But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon we ought not to fohget who it is that has suppohted 'im. Yondah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin! 'er apples an' gingerbread."
The three men looked in the direction indicated.
"Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now," exclaimed the sheriff.
Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation. A minute more and he had come over and passed into the court-house by a side door.
"Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day?"
"He is expected, I think."
"Then let's go in; there will be a crowd."
"I don't know; so many are dead."
They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as possible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court-room. Until the bar assembled, it had not been realized how many were gone. The silence was that of a common overwhelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor, no one observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat on one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. He had not sat there since the day of his indictment for vagrancy. The judge took his seat and, making a great effort to control himself, passed his eyes slowly over the court-room. All at once he caught sight of old King Solomon sitting against the wall in an obscure
