CHAPTER IV

Annapolis

The commissioners left Annapolis for Lancaster on the 18th day of June, which was three days earlier than had been originally planned. After their departure Governor Bladen sighed with relief, packed up his black satins and official orders, and hied him to his country-place to recuperate for the fall sessions. By the 1st of July Annapolis was deserted. All of the old families had gone to their summer houses up the river or down the bay, and it was remarked that Dr. Carroll, who chose to stay in town, and Rockwell, whom he sincerely hated, must bear each other company through the summer. But Dr. Charles was not yet reduced to the companionship of a Church-of-England clergyman. He had taken an immense fancy to Claude de Mailly, of whom he saw as much as Claude would let him. Indeed, he had given the Frenchman more than one invitation to leave the tavern of Miriam Vawse to make a permanent abode in his own house, and could not quite understand why he had been refused. But Claude was well satisfied where he was; and had there the indispensable feeling of independence. Few guests ever came to the little tavern after the close of the spring assembly; and, when an occasional traveller did stop overnight, monsieur ate in his room, went to the coffee-house, or remained to make acquaintance of the stranger, as he chose.

On sailing for the English colonies it had been Claude's idea to travel through them, when he arrived, as rapidly as possible, courting what adventure and danger he could, and to keep his thoughts enough occupied to crush, as best he might, his hopeless homesickness. But, after living in Annapolis for a week, he found that it might be a very endurable thing to exist in Annapolis for a year. The air was different, in this new land. New thoughts and new occupations had come, after his illness, and he ended at last by making a very pleasant salute to the Fate which had cast his lines in these places, determining to take the goods which the gods and Miriam Vawse provided (at moderate cost), and remain in the little city till discontent again knocked upon his door. Certainly, he was not lonely. Through Dr. Carroll and Vincent Trevor he had made acquaintance with every gentleman, young or old, in the town. They received him extremely well, though, it must be confessed, some of them balked at his title. "Bah! Every Frencher's a count!" he heard Mr. Chase cry out one morning at the market, and thereafter he requested to be presented simply as M. de Mailly to what men he chanced to meet. Through the influence of Sir Charles he had been given the freedom of the coffee-house, which was really the gentlemen's club; and he was asked to the last assembly of the season, which had taken place just before the departure of the commissioners, and which he did not attend.

Upon an afternoon of the first week of July, Charles Fairfield, wofully bored with the weather and the lack of something to do, rode into town at an early hour with intent to amuse himself at any cost, and a pruriency towards a stiff sangaree as the beginning of matters. The second want drove him down Church Street to the coffee-house. On arriving at the jockey-club-room he found its only occupant to be George Rockwell. The Queen's clergyman greeted him with great urbanity. How well would Rockwell have loved his brethren had all of them been knights, and the eldest sons of wealthy families! The sangaree was quickly forthcoming. He drank with Sir Charles, and Sir Charles drank with him, and they drank together, till the weather was of less importance and spirit acted upon spirit with delightful effect. Then it was that the divine opened a more intimate conversation.

"Charles--my dear Sir Charles--were you aware--ah--of the fact that it is my hope and my intention--my intention, sir--to have the honor, at some day not far distant, of becoming, when two events shall have taken place, your--ah--brother-in-law, as it were?"

"What the--oh yes! Ha! ha! ha! Oh yes! You're after Lucy. To be sure, I recollect. Lucy! Well, George, I wish you well--you know that. But she won't have you."

"Won't have me?--Um. Madam Trevor has all but promised her."

"The more fool Madam Trevor.--Oh, I beg pardon. No offence, sir. But, as I hear, the affections of the lady in question are already engaged."

"Engaged?" The rector looked startled for an instant. Then he recovered himself. "You have reference, I presume, to that Puritan psalm-singer, John Whitney. Oh, I'll engage to cure the pretty child of him! She is coy with me now; excuses herself when I call, has vapors when her mother insists; refuses to permit me to salute her hand. But I have no fear, Sir Charles. Consider my position. I shall get her, have no fear."

"Still, I have observed that she attends your rival's church," remarked Sir Charles, maliciously.

The rector emptied a glass. "If you'd but help me there," he said.

"I help you! Damme, what can I do, George?"

"Since Benedict Calvert left the city 'tis Mistress Virginia, your future wife, who takes her sister to the Puritan meetings. Now, Fairfield, if you--if you would be so monstrous obliging as to speak a word to your young lady in--ah--my favor, I'd be forever beholden to you."

Sir Charles laughed unpleasantly. "Lord, Master Rockwell, d' ye think I'm married yet? What possible right have I to address my cousin on any subject but--the one I most avoid with her?"

"The one you most avoid? And what, pray, is that?"

"The tender matter of love, George. Love and Virginia are--well--strangers in my heart."

"Good Heavens! Are you not, then, to wed the lady?"

"Damme, my good fellow, I don't know! I would to Heaven I did know--the state of another person's affections."

"Another! Oho! Aha! Another--truly this is gallantry! In my ear, I beg, whisper the name."

"The name? There's only one woman's name in the world," cried Sir Charles, dramatically, a little overbalanced with the sangaree. "Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! 'Tis she, the fairest petticoat in the colony. D'ye hear?"

"I've heard that she was dangerous," responded Rockwell, chuckling with interest. "But is it true, is it possible, Charlie, that you are bewitched enough by this young--hum--Pomona--by this young Pomona, to be indifferent to the more glittering charms of Miss Trevor?"

Sir Charles sat him down in a chair and sighed. It was a true love-sigh, such as there could be no mistaking in those days. "I love her to distraction," was his inadequate observation.

"Now I wonder," reflected the rector, aloud, "I wonder if, in such case, distraction and marriage are terms synonymous?" He lifted his head, scratched his large neck delicately with his finger-nail, and regarded the young man from that height with humorous serenity.

"Devil take me--how can I, George? They expect me to take the other--Virginia. And there's the dower--and my aunt's favor--and my own dependence--and, egad, I don't know!"

"Then you won't marry her, eh?"

Fairfield grew a little red. "I must. She's a kind of cousin, too, you know."

"Oh, tut! A difficult matter. Hum!--Ha!--When--a--you are prepared to assist me in getting Mistress Lucy, my services, or, rather, one of them, is at yours."

"The marriage? Oh--St. Quentin 'ud do that. He--"

"Not St. Quentin's service, or--one that he would not perform."

"Eh? What are you getting to, Rockwell?"

The divine advanced with large solemnity to where the young man sat, bent over him, and said, in a broad whisper: "Now look you, Fairfield, there's a certain ceremony of which the law takes no count, certain words being left out.--A lady would accept it--" He stepped back a pace. "When you desire such a service, terms might be got at between us. Once in England with your bride, the marriage growing cold--" he waved his hand, shook his head, and so finished the proposition.

Sir Charles gave him a long look. The color had left his face. He rose slowly, turned his back for a moment, and took a pinch of snuff. As he faced the other again he remarked, without much expression: "What a cool-headed beast you are, Rockwell."

"Sir!"

"Yes. But don't fight me to-day. That service--" he stopped, unwilling to go on.

"You may want it yet," finished the rector, insinuatingly.

But Fairfield did not commit himself. Before he had a chance to reply a servant of the house opened the door.

"Beg pardon, sirs, but young Mr. Carroll and Mr.--the Frencher, are below, and, not being regulars--"

"Yes, yes, show them up at once," cried the lieutenant, with relief in his tone.

The servant disappeared, and George Rockwell turned upon his heel. He was not a little irritated at the result of the foregoing conversation, and he remained silent till quick steps sounded on the stairs outside, the door reopened vigorously, and young Charles, with de Mailly at his shoulder, gayly entered the room, bringing with them a new atmosphere.

"Good-day, Fairfield! Good-day, Mr. Rockwell!--Faith, you both look wofully! Is the sangaree ill made?"

The boy was in a gale of spirits, and ran about the room tasting of the liquor, looking down out of the window, and laughing at the three others. Claude saluted the gentlemen more quietly, observing to Sir Charles:

"I perceive that we have interrupted you. I crave pardon. I sent the man to see if you were disengaged."

"You are mistaken, monsieur. I assure you, in my turn, that your arrival could not have been more agreeable.--Confound it, Charles, have you a megrim or a frenzy? Where have you been, sir?"

"To a cock-fight in the Prince George Street pit. You should have been with us. Captain Jordan's bird against Jack Marshe's. Jack's died. The secretary will be in a rage. I won three pounds, though."

"You see, it was the first I had witnessed," explained de Mailly.

"Devil take me, why didn't you hunt me out, Charles? I've been eternally bored for a week.--You lost to him, de Mailly?"

Claude nodded. "As he said, a small bet--seventy-five francs."

Fairfield looked at him curiously. Three pounds did not seem to him small for a cockpit wager; but he would not have voiced this idea to the foreigner for double the amount. He turned again to young Charles.

"Odds my life, Charlie, you've been drinking. What's it mean? Where's your tutor?"

Carroll laughed joyously. "Shooting plover in the west marsh with father. I've a holiday, and M. de Mailly is making it with me."

Rockwell frowned rather ill-humoredly, as though a preachment lay upon his tongue, and Sir Charles was about to speak again, when from below came the trampling of horses' hoofs and a little chorus of voices, while Carroll cried from the window: "Vincent Trevor, William Paca, and Carleton Jennings! They've stopped here."

"Ah--they'll be up presently. Rockwell, will you risk another tankard? They'll have apple-brandy and Madeira. Vincent scorns rum."

The rector shrugged, vouchsafing no active consent, and after a moment or two the three young gentlemen clattered into the room. There was a chorus of greeting, and Trevor introduced young Paca to Claude, who had not seen him before. Jennings flung himself into a chair, flicking the dust from his coat-sleeves with a riding-crop. Paca sat upon the long table; and Vincent, after drawing off his gloves and flinging them, with his hat and whip, upon a chair, went to the door and called lustily for a decanter of Madeira with glasses.

"I ordered a sangaree when we were down," observed Jennings to Paca. "Trevor's thirst is aristocratic, but too small."

"And we'll all drink with you both," put in Fairfield, with sociable impudence, while Rockwell smiled approval.

"And now for the affair in hand," pursued Jennings, when the party were seated. "We've a race in prospect, Fairfield, that will take four months' pay to back."

"Eh! What's that? I back the winning side, of course."

Trevor laughed. "Nay, then, Charlie, will you desert me?"

"Egad, Vin, you're never going to take to racing! You've no stables."

"Castor needs none."

"Castor! Oh! By my life, Vincent, he might do. Vastly fine points, gentlemen. Rough-bred; but where you'd find a better--"

"He's pledged already, then," observed Jennings to Paca, smiling.

"Why, who will you run against, sir?" asked Rockwell, interested, despite his ill-humor; for, of all things, he loved the turf.

"Paca's filly, Doris. She's young for my two-year-old; but Will is to enter her for the fall cup, and wants to give her practice."

"Pretty beast, Doris. I stake on her, I think. Are the dates fixed?"

"No, deuce take it! there's the bother. Trevor has no jockey. Castor will carry weight, and there's not a rider in town over four and a half stone. Five would ride him; no less--eh, Vincent?" queried Paca, and Trevor nodded.

There was a short pause, in the midst of which a servant with the wine and sangaree appeared. The room drank with Trevor, and two or three afterwards turned to the pewter mugs which held the planter's favorite beverage. Claude had been listening intently to the talk concerning the race, and, his ear being well accustomed to the colonial accent, he had gathered the gist of all that was said.

"My man, Tom Cree, might know of some fellow who would do for you, Vincent. I think you could trust him if you cared to look about in that way," suggested Paca, after some hesitation.

Vincent bowed. "Certainly I'd trust your man, Will. But I've some objections to that course. I've no intention of starting stables. I run Castor merely to try your Doris and test my own animal. I don't want to be known as deeply interested in the turf. Get a professional rider fastened to you even by one race, and--poof! You all know what it means."

The group nodded. Vincent Trevor was a man highly respected by all of them. He was quiet, silent, of excellent judgment, a little given to over-Toryism, no prig, but holding fast to strong principles. His friends knew his manner of life, and never expected him to step beyond its bounds. In the present case they all perceived his position, and his silence was rather dubious, till Claude de Mailly most unexpectedly broke it.

"This race--it would not be in public?"

"Oh no. Certainly not," responded Sir Charles.

"It would be--on a track, or through the country, _à l'anglais_?"

"Oh, track, of course--not a steeple-chase--eh, Trevor?" queried Jennings, and Vincent nodded, looking to de Mailly for more.

"And the leagues--miles, I mean--how many?"

"Track's a mile and a quarter. Shall it be twice round?"

"Castor will hold twice, but would you try Doris so?"

"Tut, tut, Vincent! Doris isn't china. She'll not break so vastly easy. Egad, we'll make it three rounds, if you like!"

Vincent smiled. "I did not mean to offend you, Will," he said.

Paca began an apology at once, when Claude interrupted: "If you would permit me, Mr. Trevor, I will ride your horse for you."

The five men and Charles Carroll sat perfectly still and stared. De Mailly, beholding their amazement, and not understanding it, burst into an infectious laugh, at which Sir Charles immediately caught.

"A fine joke, damme, an excellent joke!" he cried.

Claude stopped his laughter at once. "Indeed, gentlemen, it was not a jest. I was quite in earnest, I beg you to believe," he declared.

"Pray, sir, then why did you laugh? I see nothing to laugh at in so serious a matter," remarked Rockwell, with an air of injured dignity.

"'Twas my fault, parson," retorted Fairfield, still smiling; for his humor, though English, was still not yet of the colonial type.

"Then you really make a serious offer to ride Castor in the race?" demanded young Carroll, curiously.

"I offer. It is for Mr. Trevor to refuse me, if he wishes."

"'Tis not that, monsieur, but you see--it is vastly strange form for a gentleman to ride a track against a jockey. To be plain, M. de Mailly, since you are a stranger to our customs--none of us would do such a thing."

Claude smiled and shrugged. "Thank you, sir, I was aware of the English custom in this case. But I am here to amuse myself. I make you an offer, sir. Examine my weight and my build, and try my riding before you refuse it."

He stood up for the small group to judge his weight, and this they proceeded to do with calm assurance and unsparing observation.

"Not much over five stone, I stake my oath!" remarked Jennings, measuring the slender figure with his eye.

"A shade over. Might train a little," commented Paca.

"Not much strength," whispered Fairfield, dubiously, to Vincent.

"I shall not be pulling the horse in after the first half-minute," observed Claude, quietly.

"Ahum--can you ride?" grunted Rockwell, when there came a pause.

De Mailly flushed. "There is a story that when M. de Voltaire was in London he was asked by a lady if he had ever tried writing verses when he was in love, as was the custom among English gentlemen."

"Well--what then?" retorted the reverend, irritably.

Claude turned and stared at him with such a mixture of scorn and laughter in his eyes that Trevor hastily broke in:

"Of course M. de Mailly rides, and, no doubt, excellently. But perhaps it might not be amiss if he would come out to the plantation in the morning to try my horse. And if you'll all be there to-morrow by--eleven o'clock, we'll examine Castor and give him a mount in my paddock to--"

"To see whether my riding is fit for such a speed," added the proposed jockey, with a mixture of wounded vanity and sarcastic pride. He was beginning to regret rather bitterly his impulsive and wholly generous offer. In time he might become accustomed to English manners. Just now they hurt him more than he would have confessed. His whole early life had been one which had fostered his natural buoyant impulsiveness of spirit, and had made him young beyond his years. It had been called his "pose." But that pose, which was more than half nature, was a singularly unfortunate thing for a man thrown upon the world, in a strange country, among new manners, through which he must find his way. And just now, while the Englishmen concluded various arrangements for their plan, he was struggling with his temper, and only won the battle when Trevor and Rockwell finally rose to depart. Vincent was returning to the plantation, and the clergyman, with Lucy in his mind, purposed accompanying him.

"Coming, Charles?" asked his cousin.

Fairfield hesitated. The plantation held out no special inducement to him. His blood had been heated, and he was eager for some excitement after a long period of inertia. "I think not, Vincent, since you have company. If Jennings, here, cannot put me up for the night, I'll go up to Mrs. Miriam's, or to Reynolds'."

"I'll ride with you, Trevor. I can cross the river at King's Ferry. My people will expect me to-night. Our town house is shut."

"Very well. I leave you, then, Charles. You'll ride out in the morning with M. de Mailly and Carleton."

"Ay, and me, too," called young Carroll after him. "I'll see Castor rode with the rest of you, and, egad, I'll go to the race as well!"

"We shall be delighted, Charles," replied Vincent, as he left the room.

"Until to-morrow, then. Good-day, sir," said Paca, bowing with courtly politeness to Claude, who liked him thenceforth.

The four who remained in the jockey-club-room sat silent together for some moments after they had been left alone. Then Claude, looking at young Charles, rose.

"Come, Mr. Carroll, since we are making your holiday together, let us go and finish it with a supper at my inn. You will forgive me, messieurs"--he turned to Sir Charles and Jennings--"you will forgive me that I do not propose a party of four. After the excitement of the cock-fight this afternoon, and my ride for to-morrow, we will make our evening quiet. You might be perhaps--how do you say--_ennuyé_--by it. Where shall we join you to-morrow?" He smiled gently as he beheld the lieutenant regarding him with knitted brows. Indeed, to Fairfield it seemed that the Frenchman had read his mind, and was bound to thwart his hopes of arranging a gentleman's night in Jennings' company.

"Come, come, monsieur, be more lenient. Dine with us at the 'Blue Balls' and join us in a game of _écarté_ later."

"Eh, yes!" cried young Charles, eagerly. "'Twould be vastly more fun!" He pulled de Mailly's sleeve.

"No, no, Charles, not you! It--your father--damme, you ain't out of school yet, you know," stammered Jennings, voicing Fairfield's thought.

Carroll flushed hot with anger, and Claude bit his lip before he answered, quietly: "It is impossible that I should dine with you to-night, gentlemen, though I thank you for your kindness. Mr. Carroll is my guest."

Young Charles looked at him with sulky admiration. He was furious with Jennings, mortally ashamed of his youth, but still appreciative of de Mailly's tact. Fairfield, seeing nothing for it but to accept his disappointment gracefully, rose, seized Jennings by the arm, waved an _au revoir_ to de Mailly, and with a, "Be at the 'Blue Balls' with your beasts at ten in the morning, and we'll ride out together," drew his willing companion away to their favorite night-haunt.

De Mailly looked after them as they passed through the door, and then stood still for an instant, considering. When he turned again to young Charles, the boy's face wore a new expression.

"I'm very sorry, monsieur, if I've spoiled your night. I should have gone home without you."

Claude started forward impulsively, and drew the boy's arm through his own. "_En avant!_" he cried, gayly. "Why, Charles, I'd rather you a thousand times over than any other blood in Annapolis. 'Tis a good race, yours. Your father is as gallant a gentleman as I have met, and you are his son. Come then, Charles, we'll drink to you both, to-night, in the oldest Madeira that Mistress Vawse will sell."

At a quarter to eleven o'clock on the following morning a party of three drew rein at the portico of the Trevor house. Young Carroll's holiday was over, and, despite his words to Vincent, he was again under St. Quentin's pleasant sway. Fairfield and Jennings bore visible traces of their manner of spending the previous night; but Claude's eyes were as bright as a bird's, his hand was steady on the bridle, and his nerves had been toned for the coming trial by a sound night's sleep. A group consisting of Vincent, the four ladies of his household, Will Paca, and George Rockwell, who, to Lucy's dismay, had stopped overnight with his host, greeted the new-comers merrily from the portico. When they had dismounted, and a black had taken their horses, the whole party proceeded leisurely to the rear of the house, past the small barn, the quarters, and the tobacco-houses, to the long, narrow stables, where the many horses for work and pleasure were kept. In front of these stables was a four-acre paddock, fenced off from the general grounds, and only to be entered through a wide gate to the south. Two hundred yards behind this paddock the tobacco-fields began, and the first of them was bounded by a broad ditch full of water, to be used for irrigation in dry seasons.

As the group passed the slave-quarters, Thompson, the overseer, came towards them with the key to the stables. And while Trevor, Paca, and Claude went with him round to the stalls, the rest entered the field itself to wait. The ladies, all of them more or less curious to watch this test of de Mailly's horsemanship, stood still in the open gateway, nervous lest the horse should come too near. In the interval of waiting Rockwell was devoting himself to Lucy, who received his attentions with a coldness all but rude; young Jennings talked with Virginia and her mother, who stood a little to one side; and Fairfield seized the opportunity of conversing in a low tone with Deborah, who, dressed in yellow and blue, was as pretty as the morning itself. She stood leaning close against the fence, all ears for Sir Charles, but not turning her eyes from the closed door of the stable, responding now and then, half absently, to the very personal remarks of her cavalier. She did not perceive a sudden, slow rustle at her side, along the very ruffle of her dress; but suddenly the lieutenant darted forward.

"Good God, Deborah!--Move--"

"What is it?" she cried, startled at his tone.

He was peering along the grass in front of them. "I'd stake my oath--'twas a water-moccasin," he muttered, half to himself.

The girl lifted her petticoats with both hands and shrank close to him. "A water-moccasin! Surely not here--" She stared nervously at the turf, but saw nothing. The snake, if there had been one, was gone.

"Nay--'tisn't there. Don't be frightened. It was a fancy," he rejoined, suspicious of his own eyes.

Deborah might have said more or retreated to Madam Trevor, but for the fact that, at this moment, the stable doors slid open and Castor, with de Mailly on his back, trotted into the field. Will Paca and Vincent followed him on foot and made their way over to the party in the gateway.

Castor, first-born of twin foals, and the one who had all the strength and beauty alike of the two, was an enormous jet-black animal, seventeen hands high, with a long, swinging step and three paces got from no blooded ancestors, but merely through one of those accidents sometimes permitted by the gods. He was an animal fiery enough of temper, and particular about his riders. Vincent Trevor, indeed, had been dubious about the Frenchman's ability even to mount him; but as Claude swung into the saddle and took the reins from the shining black neck, all doubts were forgotten. Castor turned his head, glanced at the man who sat him so easily, and neighed with satisfaction. As they trotted together into the paddock Claude rode in the French fashion, as though he were part of the horse, never rising in the saddle.

"Egad, he knows how!" observed Rockwell to Madam Trevor, as Castor came round the field towards them.

"I vow I've seen nothing so pretty," assented that lady, good-humoredly. "Eh, Lucy?"

"I much prefer the English fashion," retorted Lucy, irritably.

"How d' ye like him, Vincent?" asked his cousin, as the horse broke into a canter.

"Very well."

"The fellow knows his business, I think," observed Will Paca, dryly.

"His business!--You don't think--" Trevor raised his brows.

Paca shrugged.

"I protest, Will!" cried Charles Fairfield, warmly. "The man is a gentleman. I stake my oath on it. I've played with him, and I know."

"Oh--I ask pardon. I did not know your acquaintance was intimate," rejoined the other at once, with a proper manner, and Fairfield was satisfied. At the same time he felt a light touch on his arm, and, turning, he found Deborah looking at him with a light in her eyes.

"I'm so glad you said it," she whispered. "He is a gentleman."

But, while Fairfield carried her hand to his lips, he felt, in some way, that her speech had not brought him unmitigated pleasure.

Meantime Claude, who had lost all consciousness of an audience in his joy at being again upon the back of a fine animal, was increasing the pace of his steed. The long, light steps multiplied in number, the black hoofs flew faster yet, till the on-lookers marvelled at the ease of the tremendous speed, and Will Paca shook his head as he thought of his Doris and her rider.

"I'll give you three lengths start on the track, Will," cried Trevor, as de Mailly flew by for the fourth time, never moving a hair's-breadth in the saddle.

"Egad, he'll need it!" put in Sir Charles.

Deborah, her cheeks slightly flushed, moved to one side where she could watch without interruption. She saw Claude pass the stable and reach the far corner of the paddock. There something happened. A thing which looked, at the distance, like a black thread, shot suddenly up from the ground and struck at Castor's leg as he passed. The horse gave a quick, terrified plunge, which made de Mailly reel in the saddle, and then the animal, maddened with fear, started forward like a whirlwind. He had reared completely about and was running frantically towards the open gateway. At the beginning there had been a slight scream from Lucy, and now the men, their faces very pale, pulled the women quickly away from the opening. Deborah moved of her own accord, her eyes fixed fast on the horse, for she had seen what started its flight. In an instant horse and rider had flashed, comet-like, out at the gate, and, as they passed, Deborah knew that de Mailly had looked at her, and she had seen something very like a smile cross his set lips. Beyond the gate the horse veered again and made towards the south, in the direction of the tobacco-fields.

[Illustration: "HORSE AND RIDER HAD FLASHED OUT AT THE GATE"]

Claude saw, with relief, that he had an apparently unobstructed space before him. It was all that he could do now to keep himself on the horse, who no longer went at an even gait, but varied his gallop with leaps and plunges caused by pain. He was utterly beyond all control. Claude lay over on his back, both hands twisted in the long mane, his eyes half closed, breathing with some difficulty, but quite sure of himself so long as his way was clear. Suddenly, however, as he caught a glimpse of the fields beyond, his heart rose into his throat, and then sank again with a sensation which made him dizzy. A hundred yards ahead was a twenty-foot ditch of water, which no living horse could clear. If Castor saw it, and had still sense of his own, he might turn off. If not, the horse was lost, and Claude himself must take desperate chances. Many things flashed through his mind in the ensuing seconds. Most vividly of all the figure of Deborah, as he had seen her a moment before, stood out before him. Then for one more instant his mind was a white blank. They were ten yards from the stream now, and the horse was moving straight on. Mechanically, Claude took his left foot from the stirrup and swung it over Castor's back. For one frightful instant he lay full along the animal. Then, not very much aware of what he was doing, he had let himself over the side, felt solid ground whirl under his feet, and knew that all was well with him. A moment later he vaguely heard the heavy splash and the human-like scream that told of the good animal's death. Not very long after that he was looking into Vincent's face, and, as a brandy flask was held out to him, he murmured, with as much feeling as he was capable of just then:

"Monsieur, I shall never be able to express to you my regret. I have not an idea how it occurred. Believe me--"

But Vincent was actually laughing as he replied: "My dear sir, when a poisonous snake sends its fangs into your horse's leg, its rider need offer no excuse for being run away with. And, 'pon my soul, for the sake of learning how to ride as you have done, I'd sacrifice every beast that ever was stalled on this place.--Eh, Charlie?"

And from behind came Fairfield's voice, crying heartily, "Egad, when I am released from the colonies, I'll go and live in a French training-school till I do learn!"

It was an hour later, and the excitement was over, when the Reverend George Rockwell ventured to address Will Paca on the same subject: "To tell the truth, my dear sir, I confess that I believe there must have been some truth in your suggestion in the field that our--French friend knew more than a gentleman does of horses."

Paca turned slowly about and looked at him. There was no answer made in words; but at times looks are expressive of inexpressible things.