lead under colorless sky, silent save for an occa sional stirring of wind. A servant swept the gallery. The air smelled of coffee and scorched toast.
Periodically January returned to the ballroom, though for the most part he could follow the progress of the meeting by the muffled howls and singing audible even through the hotel's walls. Dunk himself went on in Boschian detail with his vision of hell for nearly an hour-The man must have lungs of leather and a bladder to match-after which, hair and shirt soaked with sweat, the preacher collapsed onto a chair on the podium. His soft-voiced assistants immediately took up the exhortation, one of them urging the congregation to "Come to Jesus; come to dear, sweet, tender Jesus; Jesus will save you; Jesus will rescue you..." while the other moved about the room, leading half-hysterical women and girls up to the benches in the front. The third time he entered, January saw that several of these front-benchers had fallen, twitching and writhing, to the floor. Dunk had one of them in his arms, whispering passionate comfort, his face so close to hers that the sweat that dripped from his hair fell to her lips; she clung to him, sobbing out a confession that was probably just as well drowned by the howling and the hymns.
Even after the sounds died away, and the scattering of slaves, freedwomen, and free colored came out onto the veranda to revive themselves on coffee and biscuits, it was another three-quarters of an hour until Dunk could extricate himself from his white admirers and gesture January into a small parlor where they would not be disturbed.
"Where had you these?" Offstage, as it were, Dunk's voice was quiet, but still beautiful, its natural depth and cadence making his words a pleasure. He didn't appear either startled or put out when January produced the pearls, only frowned with concern.
"A colored girl gave them to me, sir," answered January. "I promised her I wouldn't say anything of her, and she's left town by this time..." He glanced at the angle of sunlight on the curtains, as if confirming a time, and made a very slight nod to himself. "But she said they belong to Mrs. Redfern, whom I gather is a friend of yours. Do you recognize them?"
Dunk nodded, running the pearls through his fingers: sausagelike, but clean and with a surprisingly delicate touch. "I believe I do, though I saw her wear them only the once, two or three years ago. Would this be the unfortunate girl who made off with them last summer?" The warm sienna eyes grew wary under the long lashes.
Any Frenchman-or any actor-would have changed his shirt and combed his hair after a three-hour performance of that intensity. Dunk apparently regarded the saturated linen and matted mane as badges of an honorable tussle with Satan. By the admiring gazes of the women who peeped through the panes at them, it was an opinion he did not hold alone.
"I don't know, sir," replied January. "I understand you've visited the Redfern plantation and might be going there soon? I thought you might..."
"Spanish Bayou has been sold." Dunk shook his head. "The girl who stole these pearls made off with the money that might have gone to the saving of it, poor wretch."
"I understand the bulk of the damage was done long before that, sir," said January quietly. "Though I've never had the fever of gambling myself, and so I can't pass judgment on those who do..." "Can't you?" Under the Assyrian luxury of his beard, Dunk's mouth hardened. "You have the generosity of one who hasn't seen a good woman's life ruined through the vice, my friend." January assumed an expression of slightly startled enlightenment, as if the matter had never been presented to him or anyone else with such cogence before, and the Reverend's jaw came forward, a militant glint sparkling in his eyes.
"You can't pass judgment, you say. That does you credit as a Christian. But I happen to know that only five days before his death, Otis Redfern was obliged to sell six of his slaves-with no way of redeeming the labor force of the plantation before harvest time, you understand-in order to pay debts incurred by that pernicious vice. Upon taking those slaves to the city, he entered into gambling again, like a dog returning to his vomit, and lost the entire sum he had made by that sale, so that he had to return to his