“What with Ludwell’s Burgundy, piquet, and the French peace, we sat late last night.  My eyes are as heavy as the road.  Have you noticed, my dear, how bland and dreamy is the air?  On such an afternoon one is content to be in Virginia, and out of the world.  It is a very land of the Lotophagi,—­a lazy clime that Ulysses touched at, my love.”

The equipage slowly climbed an easy ascent, and as slowly descended to the level again.  The road was narrow, and now and then a wild cherry-tree struck the coach with a white arm, or a grapevine swung through the window a fragrant trailer.  The woods on either hand were pale green and silver gray, save where they were starred with dogwood, or where rose the pink mist of the Judas-tree.  At the foot of the hill the road skirted a mantled pond, choked with broad green leaves and the half-submerged trunks of fallen trees.  Upon these logs, basking in the sunlight, lay small tortoises by the score.  A snake glided across the road in front of the horses, and from a bit of muddy ground rose a cloud of yellow butterflies.

The Colonel yawned for the third time, looked at his watch, sighed, lifted his finely arched brows with a whimsical smile for his own somnolence; then, with an “I beg your pardon, my love,” took out a lace handkerchief, spread it over his face and head, and, crossing his legs, sunk back into the capacious corner of the coach.  In three minutes the placid rise and fall of his ruffles bore witness that he slept.

The horseman, who, riding beside the lowered glass, had at intervals conversed with the occupants of the coach, now glanced from the sleeping gentleman to the lady, in whose dark, almond-shaped eyes lurked no sign of drowsiness.  The pond had been passed, and before them, between low banks crowned with ferns and overshadowed by beech-trees, lay a long stretch of shady road.

Haward drew rein, dismounted, and motioned to the coachman to check the horses.  When the coach had come to a standstill, he opened the door with as little creaking as might be, and held out a petitionary hand.  “Will you not walk with me a little way, Evelyn?” he asked, speaking in a low voice that he might not wake the sleeper.  “It is much pleasanter out here, with the birds and the flowers.”

His eyes and the smile upon his lips added, “and with me.”  From what he had been upon a hilltop, one moonlight night eleven years before, he had become a somewhat silent, handsome gentleman, composed in manner, experienced, not unkindly, looking abroad from his apportioned mountain crag and solitary fortress upon men, and the busy ways of men, with a tolerant gaze.  That to certain of his London acquaintance he was simply the well-bred philosopher and man of letters; that in the minds of others he was associated with the peacock plumage of the world of fashion, with the flare of candles, the hot breath of gamesters, the ring of gold upon the tables; that one clique had tales to tell of a magnanimous spirit and a generous