"You have a very pretty wit, Mr. Lucian Morrow," he said. "I add
to my price a dozen eagles for it."
The young man shrugged his shoulders in his English coat.
"Smart money, eh, Zindorf . . . Well, it does not make me smart.
It only makes me remember that Count Augsburg educated you in
Bavaria for the Church and you fled away from it to be a slave
trader in Virginia."
He got on his feet, and my father saw that the man was in liquor.
He was not drunken, but the effect was on him with its daring and
its indiscretions.
It was an April morning, bright with sun. The world was white
with apple blossoms, the soft air entered through the great open
windows. And my father thought that the liquor in the man had
come with him out of a night of bargaining or revel.
Morrow put his hands on the table and looked at Zindorf ; then,
suddenly, the laughter in his face gave way to the comprehension
of a swift, striking idea.
"Why, man," he cried, "it's the devil's truth! Everything about
you is a negation! You ought to be a priest by all the lines and
features of you; but you're not. . . Scorch me, but you're not!"
His voice went up on the final word as though to convey some
impressive, sinister discovery.
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