“Worthy?” Washington Faulconer exclaimed. “Worthy! My God, Nate, if you could see the plug-uglies who shove themselves into our pulpits you wouldn’t say that! My God, we’ve got a fellow in Rosskill Church who preaches blind drunk most Sunday mornings. Ain’t that so, Ethan?”

“Poor old fool toppled into a grave last year,” Ridley added with amusement. “He was supposed to be burying someone and damn near buried himself instead.”

“So I wouldn’t worry about being worthy,” Faulconer said scornfully. “But I suppose Yale won’t be too happy to have you back, Nate, not if you walked out on them for some chickabiddy trollop? And I suppose you’re a wanted man too, eh? A thief no less!” Faulconer evidently found this notion hugely entertaining. “Go back north and they’ll clap you in jail, is that it?”

“I fear so, sir.”

Washington Faulconer hooted with amusement. “By God, Nate, but you are stuck in the tar patch. Both feet, both hands, ass, crop and privates! And what will your sacred father do if you go home? Give you a whipping before he turns you over to the constables?”

“Like as not, sir, yes.”

“So the Reverend Elial’s a whipper, is he? Likes to thrash?”

“Yes, sir, he does.”

“I can’t allow that.” Washington Faulconer stood and walked to a window overlooking the street. A magnolia was in bloom in his narrow front garden, filling the window bay with its sweet scent. “I never was a believer in a thrashing. My father didn’t beat me and I’ve never beaten my children. Fact is, Nate, I’ve never laid a hand on any child or servant, only on my enemies.” He spoke sententiously, as though he was accustomed to defending his strange behavior, as in truth he was, for, not ten years before, Washington Faulconer had made himself famous for freeing all his slaves. For a brief time the northern newspapers had hailed Faulconer as a precursor of southern enlightenment, a reputation that had made him bitterly unpopular in his native Virginia, but his neighbors’ animosity had died away when Faulconer had refused to encourage other southerners to follow his example. He claimed the decision had been purely personal. Now, the furor long in his past, Faulconer smiled at Starbuck. “Just what are we going to do with you, Nate?”

“You’ve done enough, sir,” Starbuck said, though in reality he was hoping that far more might yet be done. “What I must do, sir, is find work. I have to repay Major Trabell.”