General Washington’s time.  He spoke of her kinsmen with an admiration which went far toward including their opinions.  Jacqueline marvelled.  Surely this gentleman was a Democrat-Republican, lately the Vice-President of that party’s electing.  It was not two years since he had slain General Hamilton; and now, in a quiet, refined voice, he was talking of Federalists and Federal ways with all the familiarity, sympathy, and ease of one born in the fold and contented with his lot.  She wondered if he had quarrelled with his party, and while he was talking she was proudly thinking, “The Federalists will not have him—­no, not if he went on his knees to them!” And then she thought, “He is a man without a country.”

Rand sat somewhat silent and distrait, his mind occupied in building, building, now laying the timbers this way and now that; but presently, upon his guest’s referring to him some point for elucidation, he entered the conversation, and thenceforth, though he spoke not a great deal, his personality dominated it.  The acute intelligence opposite him took faint alarm.  “I am bargaining for a supporter,” Burr told himself, “not for a rival,” and became if possible more deferentially courteous than before.  The talk went smoothly on, from Virginia politics to the triumphal march of Napoleon through Europe; from England and the death of Pitt to the Spanish intrigues, and so back to questions of the West; and to references, which Jacqueline did not understand, to the Spanish Minister, Casa Yrujo, to the English Mr. Merry, and to Messieurs Sauve, Derbigny, and Jean Noel Destrehan of New Orleans.

Joab took away the Chelsea plates and dishes, brushed the mahogany, and placed before his master squat decanters of sherry and Madeira.  The flowing talk took a warmer tone, and began to sing with the music of the South and the golden West; to be charged with Spanish, French, and Indian names, with the odour of strange flowers, the roll of the Mississippi, and the flashing of coloured wings.  It was the two men now who spoke.  Jacqueline, leaning back in her chair, half listened to the talk of the Territory of Orleans, the Perdido, and the road to Mexico, half dreamed of what they might be doing at Fontenoy this snowy night.  The knocker sounded.  “That is Adam Gaudylock,” exclaimed Rand.  “Joab, show Mr. Gaudylock in.”

Jacqueline rose, and Colonel Burr sprang to open the door for her.  “We may sit late, Jacqueline,” said Rand, and their guest, “Madam, I will make court to you in a court some day!”

Gaudylock’s voice floated in from the hall:  “Is a little man with him?—­a black-eyed man?” She passed into the drawing-room, and, pressing her brow against the window-pane, looked out into the night.  The snow had ceased to fall, and the moon was struggling with the breaking clouds.  The door opened to admit her husband, who came for a moment to her side.  “It is not snowing now,” he said.  “A visitor will hardly knock on such a night.  If by chance one should