He knew that Evelyn loved him.  It was understood of all their acquaintance that he was her suitor; months ago he had formally craved her father’s permission to pay his addresses.  There were times in those weeks at Westover when she had come nigh to yielding, to believing that he loved her; he was certain that with time he would have his way....  But the room, the closed room, in which now he sat!

He buried his face in his hands, and was suddenly back in spirit in his garden at Fair View.  The cherries were ripe; the birds were singing:  great butterflies went by.  The sunshine beat on the dial, on the walks, and the smell of the roses was strong as wine.  His senses swam with the warmth and fragrance; the garden enlarged itself, and blazed in beauty.  Never was sunshine so golden as that; never were roses so large, never odors so potent-sweet.  A spirit walked in the garden paths:  its name was Audrey....  No, it was speaking, speaking words of passion and of woe....  Its name was Eloisa!

When he rose from his chair, he staggered slightly, and put his hand to his head.  Recovering himself in a moment, he called for his hat and cane, and, leaving the ordinary, turned his face toward the Palace.  A garrulous fellow Councilor, also bidden to his Excellency’s dinner party, overtook him, and, falling into step, began to speak first of the pirates’ trial, and then of the weather.  A hot and feverish summer.  ’Twas said that a good third of the servants arriving in the country since spring had died of their seasoning.  The slaver lying in the York had thrown thirty blacks overboard in the ran from Barbadoes,—­some strange sickness or other.  Adsbud!  He would not buy from the lot the master landed; had they been white, they had showed like spectres!  September was the worst month of the year.  He did not find Mr. Haward in looks now.  Best consult Dr. Contesse, though indeed he himself had a preventive of fever which never failed.  First he bled; then to so much of Peruvian bark—­

Mr. Haward declared that he was very well, and turned the conversation piratewards again.

The dinner at the Palace was somewhat hurried, the gentlemen rising with the ladies, despite the enticements of Burgundy and champagne.  It was the afternoon set apart for the Indian dance.  The bonfire in the field behind the magazine had been kindled; the Nottoways and Meherrins were waiting, still as statues, for the gathering of their audience.  Before the dance the great white father was to speak to them; the peace pipe, also, was to be smoked.  The town, gay of mood and snatching at enjoyment, emptied its people into the sunny field.  Only they who could not go stayed at home.  Those light-hearted folk, ministers to a play-loving age, who dwelt in the house by the bowling green or in the shadow of the theatre itself, must go, at all rates.  Marcia and Lucia, Syphax, Sempronius, and the African prince made off together, while the sons of Cato, who chanced to be twin brothers, followed with a slower step.  Their indentures would expire next month, and they had thoughts, the one of becoming an overseer, the other of moving up country and joining a company of rangers:  hence their somewhat haughty bearing toward their fellow players, who—­except old Syphax, who acted for the love of it—­had not even a bowing acquaintance with freedom.