replied; "unless"--hesitating with scrutiny in her eyes--

"His companions, I do not care to question of them!--but that man
himself--the speaker--has a sovereign presence! Can it be possible--"

The entrance of Major Favraud interrupted further conjecture, for at the
sound of those emphatic boots the stranger turned, and for one moment
the splendor of his large dark eyes, in their iron framing, met my own,
then passed recognizingly on to rest on the face of Major Favraud, and
advancing with extended hands, made more cordial by his voice and smile,
he greeted him familiarly as "Victor."

Major Favraud stood for a moment spell-bound--then suddenly rushing
forward, flung his hat to the floor, caught the hand of the stranger
between his own and pressed it to his heart. (To his lips, I think, he
would fain have lifted it, falling on one knee, perchance, at the same
time in a knightly fashion of hero-worship that modern reticence
forbids.) But he contented himself with exclaiming:

"Mr. Calhoun! best of friends, welcome back to Georgia!" And tears
started to his eyes and choked his utterance. Thus was my conjecture
confirmed. I never felt so thrilled, so elated, by any presence.

There was a momentary pause after this fervent greeting, emotional on
one part only.

"But why did you not meet me at Milledgeville?" asked Mr. Calhoun. "Most
of my friends in this vicinity sustained me there. I have been
discussing the great question[2] again, Favraud, and I should have been
glad of your countenance."