MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
walls, the glass front of the cases reflecting back the glow of the clustered lights suspended from the ceiling; the heavy mahogany centre table; a wide sofa, with a man and a woman seated upon it, both with dark eyes and hair, and strongly resembling each other, the man wearing a Confederate uniform, the woman attired in some clinging brown material, which rustled, as both instantly rose to their feet in surprise; behind the table, sunk low down within his cushioned chair, his deep-sunken eyes staring across at me, as if he saw a vision, was Judge Dunn; while to his right another man—big, burly, his hair closely cropped, and iron-gray, leaned forward as if to spring, one hand gripping the arm of his chair, the other as instantly plucking forth a revolver from his belt. Even as the ready weapon flashed deadly in the light, I spoke, my hands held up, as I took a single step forward into the room.
"I am not here as an enemy, gentlemen; if I were I could have easily shot first from the hall. I merely wish to be heard, and, as evidence of good faith, I will deposit my weapons on the table."
You could have heard a pin drop as I advanced, unclasped my belt, and laid it before them; the two sank back upon the sofa, while the big fellow, still leaning forward, as though braced for a spring, slowly returned his revolver to its sheath, yet without once removing his eyes from my face. No one among them uttered a word, although the Judge was sputtering as if endeavoring to gain control of his language. I had plainly the advantage of surprise, and comprehended the value of retaining it.
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