The crowd, gentle and simple, arose, and pushed back all benches, stools, and chairs, so as to enlarge the circumference of the ring, and the six girls who were to run stepped out upon the green.  The youngest son of the house of Jaquelin checked them off in a shrill treble:—­

“The blacksmith’s Meg—­Mall and Jenny from the crossroads ordinary—­the Widow Constance’s Barbara—­red-headed Bess—­Parson Darden’s Audrey!”

A tall, thin, grave gentleman, standing behind Haward, gave an impatient jerk of his body and said something beneath his breath.  Haward looked over his shoulder.  “Ha, Mr. Le Neve!  I did not know you were there.  I had the pleasure of hearing you read at Williamsburgh last Sunday afternoon,—­though this is your parish, I believe?  What was that last name that the youngster cried?  I failed to catch it.”

“Audrey, sir,” answered the minister of James City parish; “Gideon Darden’s Audrey.  You can’t but have heard of Darden?  A minister of the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, sir; and a scandal, a shame, and a stumbling-block to the Church!  A foul-mouthed, brawling, learned sot!  A stranger to good works, but a frequenter of tippling houses!  A brazen, dissembling, atheistical Demas, who will neither let go of the lusts of the flesh nor of his parish,—­a sweet-scented parish, sir, with the best glebe in three counties!  And he’s inducted, sir, inducted, which is more than most of the clergy of Virginia, who neither fight nor drink nor swear, can say for themselves!”

The minister had lost his gravity, and spoke with warmth and bitterness.  As he paused for breath, Mistress Evelyn took her eyes from the group of those about to run and opened her fan.  “A careless father, at least,” she said.  “If he hath learning, he should know better than to set his daughter there.”

“She’s not his own, ma’am.  She’s an orphan, bound to Darden and his wife, I suppose.  There’s some story or other about her, but, not being curious in Mr. Darden’s affairs, I have never learned it.  When I came to Virginia, five years ago, she was a slip of a girl of thirteen or so.  Once, when I had occasion to visit Darden, she waylaid me in the road as I was riding away, and asked me how far it was to the mountains, and if there were Indians between them and us.”

“Did she so?” asked Haward.  “And which is—­Audrey?”

“The dark one—­brown as a gypsy—­with the dogwood in her hair.  And mark me, there’ll be Darden’s own luck and she’ll win.  She’s fleeter than a greyhound.  I’ve seen her running in and out and to and fro in the forest like a wild thing.”

Bare of foot and slender ankle, bare of arm and shoulder, with heaving bosom, shut lips, and steady eyes, each of the six runners awaited the trumpet sound that should send her forth like an arrow to the goal, and to the shining guinea that lay thereby.  The spectators ceased to talk and laugh, and bent forward, watching.  Wagers had been laid, and each man kept his eyes upon his favorite, measuring her chances.  The trumpet blew, and the race was on.