“I dreamed,” said Gaudylock imperturbably, “of a Shawnee girl who once wanted me to stay in her father’s lodge.  ‘It is winter in the forest,’ quoth she, ’and the wolves begin to howl.  All your talk of places where the river runs through flowers and the pale faces build great villages is the talk of singing birds!  Stay by the fire, Golden-tongue!’ and I stayed—­in the dream.

     “When you see a partridge
       Scurrying through the grass,
     Fit an arrow to the bow,
       For a man will pass!

“Heigho!”

“I am already,” retorted Rand, “at the place where the river runs through flowers and the pale faces have built villages.  Who will say that I did not cross the forest?—­I was years in crossing it!  Here is Lynch’s.”

The coffee house on Main Street was the resort of lawyers, politicians, and strangers in town, and towards dusk, when the stage and post-rider were in, a crowded and noisy place.  It was yet early when Rand and Gaudylock entered, and neither the mail-bag, nor many habitues of the place had arrived.  The room was quiet and not over brightly lit by the declining sun and the flare of a great, crackling fire.  There were a number of tables and a few shadowy figures sipping chocolate, wine, or punch.  Rand led the way to a corner table, and, sitting down with his back to the room, beckoned a negro and ordered wine.  “I am tired, voice and mind,” he said to Gaudylock, “and I know you well enough to neglect you.  Let us sit still till the papers come.”

He drank his wine and, with his elbow on the table, rested his forehead upon his hand and closed his eyes.  Adam emptied his glass, then, leaning back in his corner, surveyed the room.  Two men came and seated themselves at a neighbouring table.  They were talking in lowered voices, but Gaudylock’s ears were exceedingly keen.  “A great speech!” said one.  “As great as Mr. Henry ever made.  Do you remember old Gideon Rand?”

The other shrugged.  “Yes; and I remember old Stephen Rand, Gideon’s father—­a pirate of a man, sullen, cruel, and revengeful!  A black stock!”

“The Waynes were not angels either—­save by comparison,” quoth the first.  “All the same it was a great speech.”

“I grant you that,” said the other.  “Black stock or not, we’ll see him Governor of Virginia.  Curious, isn’t it?”

They became aware of their neighbours, glanced uneasily at each other, raised their eyebrows, and changed to a distant table.  Rand made no sign of having heard.  He put out his hand to the Burgundy, filled his glass, and drank it slowly, then closed his eyes again.  A figure, half buried in the settle by the fire, folded a month-old journal and, rising, displayed in the light from the hickory logs the faded silk stockings, the velvet short-clothes, brocaded coat, and curled wig of M. Achille Pincornet, who taught dancing each winter in Richmond, as in summer he taught it in Albemarle.  Mr. Pincornet, snuff-box and handkerchief in hand, looked around him, saw the two at the corner table, and crossed to them.  “Mr. Rand, I make you my compliments.  I was in the gallery.  Ah, eloquence, eloquence!—­substance persuasively put!  Minerva with the air of Venus!  I, too, was eloquent in my day!  Pray honour me!”