He had
been my father's body-servant, and, notwithstanding all the years that
lay between, he knew me at once.
Thereupon, as you would guess, I came immediately into some small
portion of my kingdom. Though Darius was the patriarch, the other blacks
were also fugitives from Appleby Hundred; and for the son of Roger
Ireton there was instant vassalage and loyal service. But best of all,
on my first evening before the handful of fire in the great fire-place,
Darius brought me a package swathed in many wrappings of Indian-tanned
deerskin. It contained my father's sword, and, more precious than this,
a message from the dead. My father's farewell was written upon a leaf
torn from his journal, and was but a hasty scrawl. I here transcribe it.
_My Son:_
_I know not if this will ever come into your hands, but it and
my sword shall be left in trust with the faithful Darius. We
have made our ill-timed cast for liberty and it has failed, and
to-morrow I and five others are to die at the rope's end. I
bequeath you my sword--'tis all the tyrant hath left me to
devise--and my blessing to go with it when you, or another
Ireton, shall once more bare the true old blade in the sacred
cause of liberty._
_Thy father,_
_Roger Ireton._
You may be sure I conned these few brave words till I had them well by
heart; and later, when my voice was surer and my eyes less dim, I
summoned Darius and bade him tell me all he knew.
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