The house was of stone, and large and square and gray, with only a pillared porch instead of the long double galleries we build; and it had a row of windows in the roof, called dormers, and was surrounded by a stockade of enormous timbers, in the four corners of which were set little forts pierced for rifle fire.

Noble trees stood within the fortified lines; outside, green meadows ringed the place; and the grass was thick and soft, and vivid as a green jewel in color—­such grass as we never see save for a spot here and there in swampy places where the sun falls in early spring.

The house was yet a hundred rods away to the eastward.  I rode on slowly, noticing the neglected fences on either hand, and thought that my cousin Varick might have found an hour to mend them, for his pride’s sake.

Isene, my mare, had already scented the distant stables, and was pricking forward her beautiful ears as I unslung my broad hat of plaited palmetto and placed it on my head, the better to salute my hosts when I should ride to their threshold in the Spanish fashion we followed at home.

So, cantering on, I crossed a log bridge which spanned a ravine, below which I saw a grist-mill; and so came to the stockade.  The gate was open and unguarded, and I guided my mare through without a challenge from the small corner forts, and rode straight to the porch, where an ancient negro serving-man stood, dressed in a tawdry livery too large for him.  As I drew bridle he gave me a dull, almost sullen glance, and it was not until I spoke sharply to him that he shambled forward and descended the two steps to hold my stirrup.

“Is Sir Lupus at home?” I asked, looking curiously at this mute, dull-eyed black, so different from our grinning lads at home.

“Yaas, suh, he done come home, suh.”

“Then announce Mr. George Ormond,” I said.

He stared, but did not offer to move.

“Did you hear me?” I asked, astonished.

“Yaas, suh, I done hear yoh, suh.”

I looked him over in amazement, then walked past him towards the door.

“Is you gwine look foh Mars’ Lupus?” he asked, barring my way with one wrinkled, blue-black hand on the brass door-knob.  “Kaze ef you is, you don’t had better, suh.”

I could only stare.

“Kaze Mars’ Lupus done say he gwine kill de fustest man what ’sturb him, suh,” continued the black man, in a listless monotone.  “An’ I spec’ he gwine do it.”

“Is Sir Lupus abed at this hour?” I asked.

“Yaas, suh.”

There was no emotion in the old man’s voice.  Something made me think that he had given the same message to visitors many times.

I was very angry at the discourtesy, for he must have known when to expect me from my servant, who had accompanied me by water with my boxes from St. Augustine to Philadelphia, where I lingered while he went forward, bearing my letter with him.  Yet, angry and disgusted as I was, there was nothing for me to do except to swallow the humiliation, walk in, and twiddle my thumbs until the boorish lord of the manor waked to greet his invited guest.