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“Last summer I’d sit out of doors at night and watch the stars come out thick, like old friends, till I’d catch the mood and be content. The wind would blow up from the south, softly, like some one fanning me, and the frogs and crickets would sing even and sleepy, and I’d think of her and be as nearly happy as it was possible for me to be.

“Then, somehow, he’d drift into the picture, and it grated. I’d wonder why this love of woman, which ought to make one feel the best of everything there is in life; which ought to make one kinder and tenderer to every one, should make me hate him, my best friend. The night would be spoiled, and from then on the crickets would sing out of tune. I’d go to bed, where, instead of sleeping, I would try to find out, and couldn’t.

“And at last, that night–and the end! Oh, it’s horrible, horrible! I wish to God they’d try me quick, and end it. It makes me hate that girl to think she’s the cause. And that makes me hate myself, for I know she’s innocent. Oh, it’s tangled–tangled–“

Of the trial which followed, the world knows. How Burr pleaded his own case, and of the brilliancy of the pleading, history makes record at length. ‘T was said long before, when the name of Burr was proud on the Nation’s tongue–years before that fatal morning on Weekawken Heights–that no judge could decide against him. Though reviled by half the nation, it would seem it were yet true.

Another trial followed; but of this history is silent, though Aaron Burr pleaded this case as well. It was a trial for manslaughter, and every circumstance, even the prisoner’s word, declared guilt. To show that a person may be guilty in act, and at the same time, in reality, innocent, calls for a master mind–the mind of a Burr. To tell of passion, one must have felt passion, and of such Burr had known his full share. No lawyer for the defence was ever better prepared than Burr, and he did his best. In court he told the jury a tale of motive, of circumstance, and of primitive love, such as had never been heard in that county before; such that the twelve men, without leaving their seats, brought a verdict of “Not guilty.”

“I can’t thank you right,” said the big man, with a catch in his voice, wringing Burr’s hand.

“Don’t try,” interrupted Burr, quickly. “You did as much for me.” And even Burr did not attempt to say any more just then.

III

The two men went East together, travelling days where now hours would suffice. Why Burr took the countryman home with him, knowing, as he did, the incongruity of such a step, he himself could not have told. It puzzled Ellis still more. He had intended going far away to some indefinite place; but this opportunity of being virtually thrust into the position where he most wished to be, was unusual; it was a reversal of all precedent; and so why demur?

On the way, Burr told much of his life–probably more than he had told before in years. He knew that the sympathy of Ellis was sincere, and a disinterested motive was with him a new thing, a key to confidence.

A woman was at this time, and had been for years, foremost in Burr’s mind. He was going to see her now; beyond that his plans were dim. During a career of politics, there had crept into the man’s life much that was hard and worldly; but this attachment was from ambition far apart–his most sacred thing.

She was a brilliant woman, this friend of Burr’s; one whom many sought; but it was not this which influenced him. She had been his best friend, and had taken him into her own home during the darkest hour of his life, when condemnation was everywhere. Gossip had fluttered, but to no avail. Burr never forgot a friend, and in this case it was more than friendship: it was a genuine love that lasted; for years later, in his old age and hers as well, old Jumel mansion made gay at their wedding.