I rose, sick at heart, but every man was standing. And then a strange
thing happened. I saw General Wilkinson at the far end of the room; his
hand was raised, and there was that on his handsome face which might have
been taken for a smile, and yet was not a smile. Others saw him too, I
know not by what exertion of magnetism. They looked at him and they held
their tongues.

"I fear that we are losing our heads, gentlemen," he said; "and I propose
to you the health of the first citizen of Kentucky, Colonel George Rogers
Clark."

I found myself out of the tavern and alone in the cool May night. And as
I walked slowly down the deserted street, my head in a whirl, a hand was
laid on my shoulder. I turned, startled, to face Mr. Wharton, the
planter.

"I would speak a word with you, Mr. Ritchie," he said. "May I come to
your room for a moment?"

"Certainly, sir," I answered.

After that we walked along together in silence, my own mind heavily
occupied with what I had seen and heard. We came to Mr. Crede's store,
went in at the picket gate beside it and down the path to my own door,
which I unlocked. I felt for the candle on the table, lighted it, and
turned in surprise to discover that Mr. Wharton was poking up the fire
and pitching on a log of wood. He flung off his greatcoat and sat down
with his feet to the blaze. I sat down beside him and waited, thinking
him a sufficiently peculiar man.