The list went on.  Candles were lighted on every table and on the mantel-shelf, though outside the windows the west was yet red.  Two negroes brought and tossed into the cavernous fireplace a mighty backlog of hickory.  The sound of the fire mingled with the rustle of large thin sheets of paper, the crisp turning of Auroras, National Intelligencers, Alexandria Expositors, Gazettes of the United States, excited journals of an excited time, with softly uttered interjections and running comment, and with now and then a high, clear statement of fact or rumour.  At home, the hour’s burning question was that of English and Spanish depredation at sea, attack upon neutral ships, confiscation and impressment of American sailors.  In Washington, the resolutions of Gregg and Nicholson were under consideration, and all things looked toward the Embargo of a year later.  Abroad, the sign in the skies was still Napoleon—­Napoleon—­Napoleon!  Now, at Lynch’s, as the crowd increased and the first absorbed perusal of script and print gave way to exchange of news and heated discussion, the room began to ring with voices.  Broken sentences, words, and talismanic phrases danced as thick as motes in a sunbeam.  “Non-Importation....  Gregg....  Too wholesale....  Nicholson....  Silk, window-glass....  Napoleon....  Brass, playing-cards, books, prints, beer, and ale....  Napoleon....  The Essex of Salem, the Enoch and Rowena....  Texas—­the seizure of Texas.  Two millions for the Floridas....  The Death of Pitt....  Napoleon—­Austerlitz....  ‘Decius’ in the Enquirer—­that’s John Randolph of Roanoke....  ’Aurelius’—­that letter of ’Aurelius’—­”

Rand, at the corner table, had moved his chair so as to face the room.  Letters and papers were spread before him; he had broken the seal of a thin blue sheet and drawn a candle close to the fine, neat, and pointed writing.  The letter interested him, and he apparently took no heed of the rapid disjointed speech around him.  But the word “Aurelius” brought a sudden, darting glance, a movement of the lower lip, and a stiffening of the shoulders.  Gaudylock, who sat and smoked, supremely indifferent to the display of newspapers, marked the flicker of emotion.  “He sees a snake in the grass,” he thought lazily “Who’s ’Aurelius’?”

Rand turned the thin blue page, snuffed the candle, and fell again to his reading.  Right and left the talk continued.  “Glass, tin....  The Albemarle Resolutions.  Great speech.  He’s over there....  All this talk about Aaron Burr....  Austerlitz—­twenty thousand Russians....  Westwood the coiner got clean away on a brig for Martinique.  One villain the less here, one the more in Martinique.  Martinique! that’s where the Empress Josephine comes from—­”

“My faith!” said Adam.  “It’s worse than the mockingbirds in June!”

The doors opened and the two Carys entered the coffee room.  Rand lifted his eyes for a moment, then let them fall to the third sheet of his letter.  Mr. Lynch bustled forward.  “Ha, Mr. Cary, your letters are waiting!  Mr. Fairfax Cary,—­your servant, sir!—­Eli, wine for Mr. Cary—­the Madeira.  Christopher, more wood to the fire!  The night is falling cold.”