* * * * *

Armitage rose, dropped the paper into the fire, and, with his elbow resting on the mantel-shelf, watched it burn.  He laughed suddenly and faced about, his back to the flames.  Oscar stood at attention in the middle of the room.

“Shall we unpack—­yes?”

“It is a capital idea,” said John Armitage.

“I was striker for my captain also, who had fourteen pairs of boots and a bad disposition—­and his uniforms—­yes?  He was very pretty to look at on a horse.”

“The ideal is high, Oscar, but I shall do my best.  That one first, please.”

The contents of the two trunks were disposed of deftly by Oscar as Armitage directed.  One of the bedrooms was utilized as a closet, and garments for every imaginable occasion were brought forth.  There were stout English tweeds for the heaviest weather, two dress suits, and Norfolk jackets in corduroy.  The owner’s taste ran to grays and browns, it seemed, and he whimsically ordered his raiment grouped by colors as he lounged about with a pipe in his mouth.

“You may hang those scarfs on the string provided by my predecessor, Sergeant.  They will help our color scheme.  That pale blue doesn’t blend well in our rainbow—­put it in your pocket and wear it, with my compliments; and those tan shoes are not bad for the Virginia mud—­drop them here.  Those gray campaign hats are comfortable—­give the oldest to me.  And there is a riding-cloak I had forgotten I ever owned—­I gave gold for it to a Madrid tailor.  The mountain nights are cool, and the thing may serve me well,” he added whimsically.

He clapped on the hat and flung the cloak upon his shoulders.  It fell to his heels, and he gathered it together with one hand at the waist and strutted out into the hall, whither Oscar followed, staring, as Armitage began to declaim: 

“’Give me my robe; put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me!’

“’Tis an inky cloak, as dark as Hamlet’s mind; I will go forth upon a bloody business, and who hinders me shall know the bitter taste of death.  Oscar, by the faith of my body, you shall be the Horatio of the tragedy.  Set me right afore the world if treason be my undoing, and while we await the trumpets, cast that silly pair of trousers as rubbish to the void, and choose of mine own raiment as thou wouldst, knave!  And now—­

“’Nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.’”

Then he grew serious, tossed the cloak and hat upon a bench that ran round the room, and refilled and lighted his pipe.  Oscar, soberly unpacking, saw Armitage pace the hall floor for an hour, deep in thought.

“Oscar,” he called abruptly, “how far is it down to Storm Springs?”

“A forced march, and you are there in an hour and a half, sir.”