Being as he was in this terribly perturbed state he had shirked his morning toilet and presented a proportionately haggard and unkempt appearance.

He was about to quit the table when big Steve entered the room to say there was a white fellow at the door wished to see him.
"Fetch him along in here," said Ware briefly, without lifting his bloodshot eyes.
Brought into his presence the white fellow delivered a penciled note which proved to be from Murrell, and then on Ware's invitation partook of whisky.

When he was gone, the planter ordered his horse, and while he waited for it to be brought up from the stables, reread Murrell's note.

The expression of his unprepossessing features indicated what was passing in his mind, his mood was one of sullen rebellion.

He felt Murrell was bent on committing him to an aggregate of crime he would never have considered possible, and all for love of a girl--a pink-cheeked, white-faced chit of a girl--disgust boiled up within him, rage choked him; this was the rotten spot in Murrell's make-up, the man was mad-stark mad! As Ware rode away from Belle Plain he cursed him under his breath with vindictive thoroughness.