The light caused to sparkle a jeweled pin worn in the lace of his ruffles, and the toy caught the Colonel’s eye.  “One of Spotswood’s golden horseshoes!” he exclaimed.  “I had them wrought for him in London.  Had they been so many stars and garters, he could have made no greater pother!  ’Tis ten years since I saw one.”

Haward detached the horseshoe-shaped bauble from the lace, and laid it on the other’s palm.  The master of Westover regarded it curiously, and read aloud the motto engraved upon its back:  “‘Sic Juvat Transcendere Montes.’  A barren exploit!  But some day I too shall please myself and cross these sun-kissing hills.  And so the maid with the eyes is not his reverence’s servant?  What is she?”

Haward took the golden horseshoe in his own hand, and fell to studying it in the firelight.  “I wore this to-night,” he said at length, with deliberation, “in order that it might bring to your mind that sprightly ultramontane expedition in which, my dear Colonel, had you not been in England, you had undoubtedly borne a part.  You have asked me a question; I will answer it with a story, and so the time may pass more rapidly until the arrival of Mr. MacLean with our friends who set traps.”  He turned the mimic horseshoe this way and that, watching the small gems, that simulated nails, flash in the red light.  “Some days to the west of Germanna,” he said, “when about us were the lesser mountains, and before us those that propped the sky, we came one sunny noon upon a valley, a little valley, very peaceful below the heights.  A stream shone through it, and there were noble trees, and beside the stream the cabin of a frontiersman.”

On went the story.  The fire crackled, reflecting itself in mirrors and polished wood and many small window panes.  Outside, the rain had ceased, but the wind and the river murmured loudly, and the shadows of the night were gathering.  When the narrative was ended, he who had spoken and he who had listened sat staring at the fire.  “A pretty story!” said the Colonel at last.  “Dick Steele should have had it; ’twould have looked vastly well over against his Inkle and Yarico.  There the maid the savior, here the man; there perfidy, here plain honesty; there for the woman a fate most tragical, here”—­

“Here?” said Haward, as the other paused.

The master of Westover took out his snuffbox.  “And here the continued kindness of a young and handsome preserver,” he said suavely, and extended the box to his host.

“You are mistaken,” said Haward.  He rose, and stood leaning against the mantel, his eyes upon the older man’s somewhat coldly smiling countenance.  “She is as innocent, as high of soul, and as pure of heart as—­as Evelyn.”

The Colonel clicked to the lid of his box.  “You will be so good as to leave my daughter’s name out of the conversation.”

“As you please,” Haward answered, with hauteur.

Another silence, broken by the guest.  “Why did you hang that kit-kat of yourself behind the door, Haward?” he asked amiably. “’Tis too fine a piece to be lost in shadow.  I would advise a change with yonder shepherdess.”