That very day I had finished my preparations.  The train was now laid, and the men were ready, and a word from Lawrence would line the West with muskets.  But I had none of the satisfaction of a completed work.  It was borne in upon me that our task was scarcely begun, and that the peril that threatened us was far darker than we had dreamed.  Ringan’s tale of a white leader among the tribes was always in my head.  The hall where we sat was lined with portraits of men who had borne rule in Virginia.  There was Captain John Smith, trim-bearded and bronzed; and Argall and Dale, grave and soldierly; there was Francis Wyat, with the scar got in Indian wars; there hung the mean and sallow countenance of Sir John Harvey.  There, too, was Berkeley, with his high complexion and his love-locks, the great gentleman of a vanished age; and the gross rotundity of Culpepper; and the furtive eye of my lord Howard, who was even now the reigning Governor.  There was a noble picture of King Charles the Second, who alone of monarchs was represented.  Soft-footed lackeys carried viands and wines, and the table was a mingling of silver and roses.  The afternoon light came soft through the trellis, and you could not have looked for a fairer picture of settled ease.  Yet I had that in my mind which shattered the picture.  We were feasting like the old citizens of buried Pompeii, with the lava even now, perhaps, flowing hot from the mountains.  I looked at the painted faces on the walls, and wondered which I would summon to our aid if I could call men from the dead.  Smith, I thought, would be best; but I reflected uneasily that Smith would never have let things come to such a pass.  At the first hint of danger he would have been off to the West to scotch it in the egg.

I was so filled with sober reflections that I talked little; but there was no need of me.  Youth and beauty reigned, and the Governor was as gay as the youngest.  Many asked me to take wine with them, and the compliment pleased me.  There was singing, likewise—­Sir William Davenant’s song to his mistress, and a Cavalier rant or two, and a throat ditty of the seas; and Elspeth sang very sweetly the old air of “Greensleeves.”  We drank all the toasts of fashion—­His Majesty of England, confusion to the French, the health of Virginia, rich harvests, full cellars, and pretty dames.  Presently when we had waxed very cheerful, and wine had risen to several young heads, the Governor called on us to brim our glasses.

“Be it known, gentlemen, and you, fair ladies,” he cried, “that to-day is a more auspicious occasion than any Royal festival or Christian holy day.  To-day is Dulcinea’s birthday.  I summon you to drink to the flower of the West, the brightest gem in Virginia’s coronal.”

At that we were all on our feet.  The gentlemen snapped the stems of their glasses to honour the sacredness of the toast, and there was such a shouting and pledging as might well have turned a girl’s head.  Elspeth sat still and smiling.  The mockery had gone out of her eyes, and I thought they were wet.  No Queen had ever a nobler salutation, and my heart warmed to the generous company.  Whatever its faults, it did due homage to beauty and youth.