As the sun began its descent from the sky, so did a traveler down a hill. The man took his time; he had no home to which he needed hurry. When he reached the bottom, he squinted into the reddening sky, took his broad hat off his head, and fanned himself with it. A bundle rested over his right shoulder.
He was a man of average height, with slick, greasy hair. As his face muscles tensed from squinting and his lips drew apart in a grimace, his yellow teeth glinted in the dimming light. There were several gaps. His hands were gnarled and knotty—the relatively small spans of years his life encompassed had taken its toll on his features. His face was worn and unused to expressing feelings other than pain, annoyance, and malice. His dark eyes searched the landscape for a place to spend the night. The twisted, stunted trees of the swamp did not allow him to see far. He unrolled the bundle and took a worn, rusty compass from it. A grunt issued from his throat as he climbed back to the top of the hill. For a minute or two, he surveyed the swamp in the direction of the setting sun and spied a wisp of smoke rising in the distance. He took the bearing of it on his compass, memorized it, and made a second trip down the hill. After replacing the compass in the bundle and rolling it up again, he started off with his belongings, moving with more speed than before. There wasn't much light left in the day.
Just as the sun set, the vagrant came upon an ancient, dilapidated mansion that had once been white, but was now almost grey—where the paint still clung to it. The main sized it up with his cunning eyes. Smoke still curled from one of its chimneys. He could see oil lamps hanging in the windows, providing illumination at intervals on the outside. The only sounds he could hear were the croaks and rattles one normally heard on a sultry bog night.
He set his bundle down, took off his hat, spat into his hands, and slicked his hair down further. He picked up the bundle again and advanced to the front door of the rotting estate.
Before he was able to knock on the door, it swung open, powered by an extremely old woman whose face was smothered in oils and paints. Her beady eyes took in the stranger for a few moments, then shone with excitement. They were absolutely black. Her lips were puckered and her cheeks shriveled. She reminded the man of a dried apple. Her long grey hair was immaculately pinned upon the top of her head in the style of the Southern belles of the late nineteenth century. Her yellow-white dress came from the same era. Like her, it was a relic from the antebellum South, gone out to pasture years and years before.
Her voice sounded dry and raspy and had a heavy drawl. “Who ah you, suh, and whah have you come to owah humble estate?”
The man's voice came sibilantly. “I'm jest a man travelin' the countryside. I was wonderin' if I could stay here tonight.”
“Way-ell, come awn in.” She turned to escort him into the manse and shouted the best she could down a hallway, “Deauh, we hayve a visituh! Pa-lease come greet him!” A mumble issued from the darl corridor, and, shortly after, slow footsteps.
The drifter peered at the interior of the house. Ancient wood carvings decorated the rails of the great staircase climbing into the gloomy darkness of the house's second floor. An old grandfather clock in an adjacent sitting room ticked and tocked to itself, seemingly paying no attention to the passing ages marked by its monologue. To the man's other side, a dining room squatted. An oval table was inside, set for twelve. Into the countless hallways the man could see only a few feet. Everything in the house carried a patina of age, including the elderly woman, who hummed to herself. The footsteps grew louder and finally a gentleman emerged from one of the passageways. His face was set in a never-changing, stoic mask, which, though it looked younger than the woman's, was no more pleasant. He had a shock of white hair and wore a painstakingly clean suit of grey and white. He seemed the embodiment of the Southern gentleman and was the perfect counterpart to his wife. They were the last two of a dead era. His watery blue eyes pierced the vagrant's.
He inclined his head in a bow. “Good evening, young fella. What can we he'p you with?”
“He wants to stay with us, deauh,” said the old woman, almost in a pleading tone.
“If you wouldn' mind, sir.”
“Of course. How could we tuhn down anyone,” stated the man with a quick glance to his wife.
“Whah,” she rasped, “Ah do believe dinnuh is ready.”
The man found that, although the house was in disrepair, it contained numerous valuables—from the silver and china on which they ate a large, well-cooked meal, to the golden statuettes on the mantle near the table.
“Ma'am,” said the stranger with a tone of satisfaction, “that was a fine dinner.”
She fluttered her dessicated eyelids and thanked him.
The old gentleman said, “Whereabouts you come from, mah boah?”
“I've been all over the place. I was born in Connecticut.”
At this the old couple exchanged a look.
“Mah deauh, it is late. Ah think it's tahm we all went to bed.”
The old man nodded.
The drifter was soon guided to a room that would have been luxurious, had it not been gnawed by age. A musky bed, large enough to fit five or six comfortably, lay under an arched window that looked out over the dark swamp, and would see the sunrise in the morning. A yellowed dresser with a cobwebbed mirror stood along the opposite wall. There was a faded, cracked leather armchair next to the fireplace that stood against the wall across from the door. The old man and woman left him there after bidding him good night.
He had no intention of sleeping. He waited until the lamped had been turned off and the old house was silent. Then, the man emptied the meager contents of his bundle, picked up his worn shoes, and tiptoed out of the room.
Because of the moonlight flooding through the windows, the man needed no other source of illumination. He crept to the dining room, placed the finest items into his bundle, and wrapped them up. Smiling tightly, he stepped cautiously to the door through which he had been ushered hours earlier. He turned the knob silently, as was his craft.
It was locked.
From the shadows behind, an old man's voice said, “What do you think you ah doin', son?”
The man's smile faded from his face. He turned around and stared into the shadows. The old man stepped from them, wraithlike. He was dressed in a Confederate uniform, holding a Colt revolver. His officer's saber rested easily on his hip.
“I was gettin' some fresh air.”
The old man's stoic expression turned agnry. His eyes had lost their rheumy quality. Now they were sharper and clearer than before. They burned with hate. “You,” he said, his voice dripping with murderous intent, “ah a dishonorable thief. And a Yankee spah.”
“No! I—”
The man raised his revolver. “Liah!” His wife materialized next to him, still wearing the dress.
“Treason,” she stated coldly, is a capital offense.”
The old man pulled the trigger.