“Very well,” said Verty, smoothing the head of his pigeon, which had been greatly startled by the explosion, “I can shoot better than that—­I ought to have hit your eye, Monsieur.”

And going to the spot he took up the turkey, and then returned to Cloud, who, with Longears at his feet, remained perfectly quiet,

Verty tied the turkey to his saddle-bow, and went on laughing.  He made his entry into Winchester in this extremely lawyer-like guise; that is to say, in moccasins and leggins, with a rifle in one hand, a pigeon on the wrist of the other, and a turkey dangling at his horse’s side.  Cloud, in order to complete the picture, was shaggier than ever, and Verty himself had never possessed so many tangled curls.  His shoulders were positively covered with them.

Unfortunately Winchester had no artist at the period.

Mr. Roundjacket was standing at the door of the office, and he greeted Verty with a loud laugh.

“You young savage!” he said, “there you are looking like a barbarous backwoodsman, when we are trying our very best to make a respectable lawyer of you.”

Verty smiled, and let Cloud dip his muzzle into the trough of a pump which stood by the door, venerable-looking and iron-handled, like all parish pumps.

“What excuse have you, young man?” said Mr. Roundjacket.  “The individual who arrives late at the locality of his daily exercitation will eventually become a candidate for the high and responsible position of public suspension.”

“Anan? said Verty, who was not accustomed to paraphrase.  Then turning his eyes toward the pigeon, he said: 

“Pretty fellow!  Oh! will you show me the way?  You shall—­to see Redbud!”

And Verty, for the first time, seemed to realize the fact, that he could see her again.  His countenance became brilliant—­his eyes were filled with light—­his lips wreathed with smiles.

Mr. Roundjacket was astounded.

“Young man,” he said, sticking his pen behind his ear, “I should be pleased to know what you are thinking about!  You are really extravagant, sir—­you need the purifying and solidifying influence of the law; believe me—­hey! what are you doing there?”

Verty was gnawing off the ribbon from the pigeon’s foot, tied too tightly; he could not undo it, and having no knife, used his sharp white teeth for the purpose.

The pigeon sank down toward the horizon—­seemed about to disappear—­Verty uttered a deep sigh.  But no:  the bird suddenly pauses, drops from the clouds, and settles upon the roof of a house crowning a grassy hill, which hill was distant from Verty not more than a quarter of a mile.

A smile of delight passed over Verty’s countenance.  He had found Redbud—­she was there!

There was no longer any necessity for such headlong speed—­he could go on slowly now—­the goal was near, and would not fly as he approached.

Verty drew near the house, which was a tall, wooden structure, embowered in trees, and carefully reconnoitered with true huntsman-like precision.  He thought that the place looked like the residence of Redbud—­it was so bright, and sunny, and cheerful.