“Why, that speaks mighty well o’ the lady!” Crocket exclaimed. “And I hope that I may yet have the pleasure to meet your poor, ailin’ sister afore me ’n’ my friend is obliged to depart.”

“That is doubtful, very doubtful” Asher replied with a distinctly exaggerated, indeed histrionic, sigh. “I am afraid that dear Marilynne has long been suffering from a severe, if somewhat obscure, malady that may shortly result in her untimely demise.” This melancholy statement was delivered with a most anomalous expression—a slight but unmistakable smile of grim satisfaction, as though the impending dissolution of his sibling were a consummation not entirely to be dreaded.

“Why, I’m plumb sorry to hear it,” Crockett remarked.

Rubbing his hands with the avidity of a glutton who has just had a platter of rare and delectable viands set before him on the dining table, Asher replied, “No, no, Colonel Crockett! There is no need for sorrow. All of us must endure our going hence, even as our coming hither. And there are worse—yes, infinitely, unimaginably worse—things than mere death!”

“Why, that’s as true as gospel,” rejoined Crockett. “I recollect one time back in the canebrake country when a mate o’ mine by the name o’ Ephraim Wadlow poked his rifle into an ol’ holler log to rouse out a great fat coon that was hidin’ there, and a whole nest o’ yeller jackets cum roarin’ out at him like a pack o’ savagerous redskins on the warpath. Now, Ephraim—”

Before my companion could proceed, I loudly cleared my throat in an effort to prevent yet another of his tiresome disquisitions, as well as to attract the attention of Asher who had thus far entirely—and with decided incivility—ignored my presence. As the latter swivelled to gaze down upon me with one pale eyebrow cocked, I boldly declared: “I infer from your evident recognition of my name, Mr. Asher, that you are as familiar with my own accomplishments as you are with Colonel Crockett’s.”

“Why, no, not at all,” Asher replied with perfect nonchalance. “Up until now, your existence has been wholly unknown to me. With the name of Poe, however, I have long been familiar, for there was a most gifted actress of that name whom my late father—a man of rare discernment and taste—greatly admired, and whom I myself once had the honor of seeing in a memorable performance of Garrick’s Miss in Her Teens”

“You refer to my dear mother, Eliza Poe,” said I, struggling to subdue my chagrin at Asher’s blithe unawareness of my own identity. Such, I mused, were the indignities that must ever be endured by the man of true artistic talent, whose rarefied achievements are inevitably overshadowed by the coarse endeavors of those lesser beings who, like Crockett, cater solely to the crude sensibilities of the masses.

“I see!” exclaimed Asher. “And what became of the lady?”