The younger man shrugged his shoulders.  “Beggars may not be choosers,” he said coolly.  “The sunlight is fast fading, and if we would be out of this gorge before nightfall we must make no further tarrying.  I have your Excellency’s permission to depart?”

One of the gentlemen made a low-voiced but audible remark to his neighbor, and another hummed a line from a love song.  The horses moved impatiently amongst the loose stones, and the rangers began to mutter that night would be upon them before they reached a safer footing.

“Mr. Haward!  Mr. Haward!” said the Governor sternly.  “It is in my mind that you meditate inflicting a greater harm than you have received.  Let me tell you, sir, if you think to so repay a simple-minded hospitality”—­

Mr. Haward’s eyes narrowed.  “I own Colonel Spotswood for Governor of Virginia,” he said, speaking slowly, as was his wont when he was angry.  “His office does not, I think, extend farther than that.  As for these pleasant-minded gentlemen who are not protected by their rank I beg to inform them that in my fall my sword arm suffered no whit.”

Turning, he beckoned to a negro who had worked his way from the servants in the rear, along the line of rangers, to the outskirts of the group of gentlemen gathered around the Governor and the injured man.  “Juba,” he ordered, “draw your horse and mine to one side.  Your Excellency, may I again remind you that it draws toward nightfall, and that this road will be no pleasant one to travel in the dark?”

What he said was true; moreover, upon the setting out of the expedition it had been laughingly agreed that any gentleman who might find his spirits dashed by the dangers and difficulties of the way should be at liberty at any time to turn his back upon the mountains, and his face toward safety and the settlements.  The Governor frowned, bit his lips, but finally burst into unwilling laughter.

“You are a very young gentleman, Mr. Marmaduke Haward!” he cried.  “Were you a little younger, I know what ointment I should prescribe for your hurt.  Go your ways with your broken ankle; but if, when I come again to the cabin in the valley, I find that your own injury has not contented you, look to it that I do not make you build a bridge across the bay itself!  Gentlemen, Mr. Haward is bent upon intrusting his cure to other and softer hands than Dr. Robinson’s, and the expedition must go forward without him.  We sorrow to lose him from our number, but we know better than to reason with—­ahem!—­a twisted ankle. En avant, gentlemen!  Mr. Haward, pray have a care of yourself.  I would advise that the ankle be well bandaged, and that you stir not from the chimney corner”—­

“I thank your Excellency for your advice,” said Mr. Haward imperturbably, “and will consider of taking it.  I wish your Excellency and these merry gentlemen a most complete victory over the mountains, from which conquest I will no longer detain you.”