Cary sat with his eyes upon the dark azure above the treetops. "Not yet," he said, in a brooding voice; "I have him not yet. Did you, Mr.

Pincornet, have any scruple when you took vengeance, near Mauleon?"

"None, sir! I served justice. Soldiers are not levied to murder at once their faith and their officers. No more scruple than is yours in hunting down the wild beast that killed your brother! You have my wishes there for a good hunting!"

The Ancien Regime put up his snuffbox and brushed the fallen grains from his old, old red brocade. "What a night for music and for love! The road down yonder--it is like the silver ribbon they wear--they wore--at court!"

"The road--the road!" exclaimed Cary. "I travel it in my sleep. It haunts me as I haunt it. I know all its long stretches, all its turns--"

He sighed, and moved so as to face the whitened ribbon.

"You ride," said the dancing master; "but, for my own convenience, I go afoot, and it is probable that I know it best."

They sat gazing down past garden and hillside to the still highway. "I have not walked upon it, however," continued Mr. Pincornet reflectively, "since September. I then went afoot from Clover Hill to Red Fields, where I was taken ill. It was the seventh of September."

"The seventh of September!"

"I remember the day," continued Mr. Pincornet, "because I sat down under a tree beside the road to rest, and I had an almanac in my pocket."

"You remember it by nothing else?"

"Why, by one thing more," answered the other. "I sat there, my head on my hand, perhaps thinking of nothing, perhaps thinking of France--an empty road and in the sky black clouds--when suddenly--what do you say?--_clatter, crash!_ through the wood opposite and down a tall red bank to the road came another pupil of mine--"

"Yes?" said Cary. "Who?"

"Mr. Lewis Rand."

Something fell to the floor with a slight sound. It was the book that had rested upon Cary's crossed knee. He stooped and picked it up, then, straightening himself, looked again at the silver ribbon. "Black clouds in the sky," he said, in a curious voice, "and the seventh of September, M. de Pincornet?"

"Yes," replied the other, "by the almanac. That was two days, was it not, before your brother's death?"

"My brother, sir, was murdered upon the seventh of September."

"The seventh! The ninth! You mean the ninth! I heard it so when I recovered--"

"You heard it wrongly. It was the seventh."

There was a silence; then, "Indeed," said the dancing master, in a curious dry and shocked voice. "The seventh. At what hour?"

"It is not known. Perhaps about midday, perhaps a little later--when there were black clouds in the sky."

The silence fell again, hard and full of meaning, then Cary leaned forward and laid his hand upon the other's arm "I've hunted long alone, now we'll hunt for a moment together! Tell me again."

"He came down the bank in a great noise and rolling of stone and earth.

There were thick woods on the top of the bank. He came out of them like Pluto out of the earth--"

"He was alone?"

"Alone. But he had a negro waiting for him down the road."

"He told you that?"

"I left my tree and we talked a little. He was torn, he was breathless.

He explained that he had started a doe and had followed through the woods. He left me and went down the road to meet his negro. They pa.s.sed me, and when I came to Red Fields, I was told they had paused there. I said nothing of our meeting. I was very tired and the storm was breaking. Before it was over I was hot and cold and shaking and ill in my bed. I was ill, as I have told you, for a long time. The ninth! I always thought it was the ninth--"

"Would you know again the place where this chase occurred?"

"He came down the bank opposite the blasted oak."

"Ah!" breathed Cary; then, after a moment, "I stopped my horse beneath that tree this morning, and my eyes rested upon that red bank. And I did not know! We are very blind." He rose. "Will you come indoors, sir? I wish to light the candles again."

They entered the small bedroom. Cary lighted the candles, placed them upon the table, and closed the shutters of the one window. From the breast of his riding-coat he took a rolled paper. "This is a map of the country below Red Fields. I made it myself. Now let us see, sir, let us see!"

He pinned the map down with ink-well, sand-box, book, and candlestick, which done, the two bent over it. "Call it," said Cary, "a military map of your country near Mauleon. Now, sir, look! Here is what a man did."

The demonstration proceeded, and it was carried out with keenness and with a very fair approach to accuracy. "Here is Malplaquet, which one pa.s.ses about nine in the morning, and there by the candlestick is Red Fields, certainly on the main road and certainly paused at by"--he glanced aside at the other's face--"by the murderer, M. de Pincornet!

Now let us mark this fox that doubles on himself."

The long, curled wig of the Frenchman and the younger man's handsome head with the hair gathered back into a black ribbon bent lower over the map. "Forrest's forge, the mill, the ford, he pa.s.sed these places under such and such circ.u.mstances--here, where I rest the pen, stands the guide-post. This line is your silvered ribbon, this is the main road that makes a sweep around the broken country. This heavy, black, and jagged line is the river road. They both took the river road, as both had said they would--my brother to me, the murderer to a man at the Cross Roads Inn. The negro boy kept on by the main road. Where is this riven oak?" He dipped the quill into the ink-well. "I correct my map according to my better knowledge. That tree stands two miles below Red Fields, just above the turn where, fifty years ago, was the Indian ambush. We'll mark it here, black and charred. Here is the bank, crowned by woods. The growth is very thick between it and"--his hand, holding the pen, travelled across the sheet--"the river road just east of Indian Run."

He laid down the pen, and turned from the table to the open door. "The moon is not bright enough, or I would go to-night. I want sunlight, or I want storm-light, for that ride across from road to road! Five hours till morning." He returned to the dancing master. "When, in your country, the man you loved was to be avenged, and his murderers punished, you were glad of aid, were you not? I shall be thankful for every least thing that you can tell me."

"He came," said the emigre, "like Pluto out of the earth. He was breathless as one out of prison--his linen was torn. There was," the narrator's voice halted, then hardened in tone,--"there was blood upon his sleeve. At the time I supposed that, in bursting through that grille of the forest, branch or briar had drawn it. There was blood, sir, about your brother?"

"Yes. If the murderer stooped to know if life was out, it might have happened so."

"He was not pale, I think, but he spoke in a strange voice. 'Ha!' he said, 'I started a doe ten minutes since, and gave her chase through the wood. Now I will rejoin my boy a little way down the road. Are you on your way to Charlottesville?' I told him I would go to Red Fields, upon which he said adieu and turned his horse. A little later he and his boy pa.s.sed me, riding in a cloud of dust and under black skies." The dancing master raised a gla.s.s of water that was upon the table and moistened his lips. "This, Mr. Cary, is all my aid. I admired your brother, and there is, sir, a something about you that returns Charles to my memory. If it pleases you, and if our host will lend me a horse, I will ride with you in the morning, as far at least as the oak and that red bank down which he came."

"I accept your offer, sir," answered the other, "with grat.i.tude. You did not chance to notice his holsters?"

"No--except that his saddle had holsters. I have seen his pistols. I saw them one night at Monticello. He told me that they were a gift from his patron."

"Yes. They were given by Mr. Jefferson, and the other's name is upon them. Moreover, he travelled armed from Richmond to Roselands. I acquired that knowledge in the autumn. I would that iron could speak--if it could, and if human effort be of avail, I would yet have those pistols in my holding!"

He took the map from the table, rolled it up, and restored it to its place. "It grows late," he said. "Let us to bed and to sleep. It is the eve of a decisive engagement, M. de Pincornet. If you'll permit me, I will call you at five. Remus shall make us coffee, and we'll make free with a horse for you from the stables. Then the road again! but this time I go no farther than the ford, on that white ribbon yonder. You shall keep the highroad, but I will take the river road, and yet I'll hold tryst with you beneath that riven oak!" He began to put out the candles. "I shall sleep and sleep well until dawn, and I wish for you, sir, as good a night. For the aid which you have given me, I am most heartily your servant."

Alone in the little room, he straightened, mechanically, the objects upon the table, paced for a time or two the narrow, cell-like place, then went out again upon the porch and stood with his hands on the railing, and his eyes raised to the white moon, full and serene in the cloudless night. "For without," he said, "are dogs and sorcerers and murderers and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie." He stood for a long while without movement, but at last let fall his hands, turned, and went indoors. When, a little later, he threw himself upon his bed and drew his hand across his eyes, he found that it was wet with tears. He spoke aloud, though hardly above his breath. "No, Ludwell, no! In this sole thing I am right. It is not revenge. I am not vindictive, I am not revengeful. This is justice, and I can no other than pursue it. It will not grieve you where you are." He turned and buried his face in the pillow. "O brother--O friend--"

The emotion pa.s.sed and he lay staring at the ceiling, reconstructing midday of September the seventh beside Indian Run.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

UNITY AND JACQUELINE

The library at Fontenoy lay west and north. In the afternoon the sun struck through the windows and through the gla.s.s door, brightening the tall clock-face, the faint gilt and brown of old books, and the portrait of Henry Churchill with the swords crossed beneath. Upon the forenoon in question, and even though the month was May, the room looked a sombre place, chill and dusk, shaded and grave as a hermit's cell.

In the great chair upon the hearth sat Colonel Churchill, somewhat bowed together and with his hand over his eyes. By the window stood Major Edward, very upright, very meagre, soldierly, and grey. The northern light was upon him; with his pinned-up sleeve and lifted head he looked a figure of old defeats and indomitable mind. From the middle of the room Fairfax Cary faced both the Churchills.