happens that the West and this great new city of ours, there at the mouth of the river, with her levees and her ships, her merchants, priests, and lawyers, do not want government by a satrap.  They want an Imperial City and a Caesar of their own.  Throughout the length and breadth of this vast territory there is deep dissatisfaction—­within and without, for Spain is yet arrogant upon its borders.  The Floridas—­Mexico—­fret and fever everywhere!  It is so before all changes, Jacqueline.  The very wind sighs uneasily.  Then one comes, bolder than the rest, sees and takes his advantage.  So empires and great names are made.”

“So good names are lost!” she cried.  “It is not thus that you spoke one October evening on our way from Albemarle!”

Rand dropped the iron from his hand.  “That was a year and a half ago, and all things move with rapidity.  A man’s mind changes.  That evening!—­I was in Utopia.  And yet, if we reigned,—­if we two reigned, Jacqueline,—­we might reign like that.  We might make a kingdom wise and great.”

“And Mr. Jefferson, and all that you owe to him?  And your letter to him every month with all the public news?”

“That was before this winter,” he answered.  “We have almost ceased to write.  I am not like James Madison or James Monroe.  I cannot follow always.  Mr. Jefferson is a great man—­but it is hungry dwelling in the shadow of another.”

“Better dwell in the shadow forever,” cried Jacqueline, with passion, “than to reign with faithlessness in the sun!”

“I am not faithless—­”

“So Benedict Arnold thought!  Oh, Lewis!”

“You speak,” said Rand slowly, “too much like the Churchills and the Carys.”

In the silence that followed, Jacqueline rose and stood over against him, the scarf trailing from her hand and the amethysts rising and falling with her laboured breathing.  He glanced at her and then went on:  “Burr leaves Richmond to-morrow.  He does not go West till summer, and all his schemes may come to naught.  What he does or does not do will depend on many things, chiefly on whether or not we go to war with Spain.  I am not going West with him—­not yet.  I have let him talk.  I have brought him and Adam Gaudylock together; I have put a little money in this land purchase of his upon the Washita, and I have given him some advice.  That is all there is of rebellion, treason, and sedition,—­all the cock-a-hoop story!  Ludwell Cary may keep his own breath to cool his own porridge.  And you, Jacqueline, you who married me, you have not a soul to be frighted with big words!  You and I shall walk side by side.”

“Shall we?” she said.  “That will depend.  I’ll not walk with you over the dead—­dead faith, dead hope, dead honour!”

“I shall not ask you to,” he answered.  “You are not yourself.  You are using words without thought.  It is the cold, the lateness, and this dying fire—­Ludwell Cary’s arrogance as well.  Dead faith, hope, honour!—­is this your trust, your faith?”