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under gigantic obelisks; to earn a monument here you must win a battle,

or do, at any rate, something more than adulterate sugar and oil. The



particular monument by which young John Mayrant and I found ourselves

standing, when we reached the point about the ladies and the thorns, had



a look of importance and it caught his eye, bringing him back to where we

were. Upon his pointing to it, and before we had spoken or I had seen the



name, I inquired eagerly: "Not the lieutenant of the Bon Homme

Richard?" and then saw that Mayrant was not the name upon it.



My knowledge of his gallant sea-fighting namesake visibly gratified him.

"I wish it were," he said; "but I am descended from this man, too. He was



a statesman, and some of his brilliant powers were inherited by his

children--but they have not come so far down as me. In 1840, his



daughter, Miss Beaufain--"

I laid my hand right on his shoulder. "Don't you do it, John Mayrant!" I



cried. "Don't you tell me that. Last night I caught myself saying that

instead of my prayers."



Well, it killed the minuet dead; he sat flat down on the low stone coping

that bordered the path to which we had wandered back--and I sat flat down



opposite him. The venerable custodian, passing along a neighboring path,

turned his head and stared at our noise.



"Lawd, see those chillun goin' on!" he muttered. "Mas' John, don't you

get too scandalous, tellin' strangers 'bout the old famblies."



Mayrant pointed to me. "He's responsible, Daddy Ben. I'm being just as

good as gold. Honest injun!"



The custodian marched slowly on his way, shaking his head. "Mas' John he

do go on," he repeated. His office was not alone the care and the showing



off of the graveyard, but another duty, too, as native and peculiar to

the soil as the very cotton and the rice: this loyal servitor cherished



the honor of the "old famblies," and chide their young descendants

whenever he considered that they needed it.



Mayrant now sat revived after his collapse of mirth, and he addressed me

from his gravestone. "Yes, I ought to have foreseen it."



"Foreseen--?" I didn't at once catch the inference.

"All my aunts and cousins have been talking to you."



"Oh, Miss Beaufain and the Earl of Mainridge! Well, but it's quite

worth--"



"Knowing by heart!" he broke in with new merriment.

I kept on. "Why not? They tell those things everywhere--where they're so



lucky as to possess them! It's a flawless specimen."

"Of 1840 repartee?" He spoke with increasing pauses. "Yes. We do at least



possess that. And some wine of about the same date--and even considerably

older."



"All the better for age," I exclaimed.

But the blue eyes of Mayrant were far away and full of shadow. "Poor



Kings Port," he said very slowly and quietly. Then he looked at me with

the steady look and the smile that one sometimes has when giving voice to



a sorrowfulconviction against which one has tried to struggle. "Poor

Kings Port," he affectionatelyrepeated. His hand tapped lightly two or



three times upon the gravestone upon which he was seated. "Be honest

and say that you think so, too," he demanded, always with his smile.



But how was I to agree aloud with what his silent hand had expressed?

Those inaudible taps on the stone spoke clearly enough; they said: "Here



lies Kings Port, here lives Kings Port. Outside of this is our true

death, on the vacantwharves, in the empty streets. All that we have left



is the immortality which these historic names have won." How could I tell

him that I thought so, too? Nor was I as sure of it then as he was. And



besides, this was a young man whose spirit was almost surely, in

suffering; ill fortune both material and of the heart, I seemed to



suspect, had made him wounded and bitter in these immediate days; and the

very suppression he was exercising hurt him the more deeply. So I



replied, honestly, as he had asked: "I hope you are mistaken."

"That's because you haven't been here long enough," he declared.



Over us, gently, from somewhere across the gardens and the walls, came a

noiseless water breeze, to which the roses moved and nodded among the



tombs. They gave him a fanciful thought. "Look at them! They belong to

us, and they know it. They're saying, 'Yes; yes; yes,' all day long. I



don't know why on earth I'm talking in this way to you!" he broke off




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