“Why should you be ’astounded’?”

“Because I hold you for a most ambitious man, and this is the plain, the apparent step in your fortunes.  At what goal are you aiming?”

“I did not want the governorship, sir.”

“Then you want a greater thing.  What it is—­what it is”—­With a sudden movement he rested his elbow on the table and regarded Rand from under the shelter of his hand.  “And so,” he said at last, in an altered voice,—­“and so you will not be Governor.  Well, it is an honourable post.  This is late August, and in November you return to Richmond—­”

“I go first across the mountains to examine a tract of land I have bought.”

“Indeed?  When do you go?”

“I have not altogether decided.”

“Will you take Mrs. Rand with you?”

“I think so.  Yes.”

“It is,” said Mr. Jefferson, “a rough journey and a wild country for a lady.”

As he spoke he rose, and, going to a small table, poured for himself a little wine in a glass and drank it slowly, then, putting the glass gently down, passed to a long window and stood, as Rand had stood before him, looking out into the night.  When he turned, the expression of his face had again changed.  “It is growing late,” he said.  “In two days I return to Washington.  The world will have grown older ere we meet again.  Who knows?  We may never meet again.  This night we may be parting forever.  You ask me if I brought you here to tell you that I acquiesced in this quarrel of your making, shook you from my thoughts, and bade you an eternal farewell.  That is as may be.  Even now—­even now the nature of our parting is in your hands!”

Rand also had risen.  “In this room, what can I say?  Your kindness to me has been very great.  My God, sir, I should be stock or stone not to feel abashed!  And yet—­and yet—­Will you have it at last?  You ask discipleship—­you must have about you tame and obedient spirits—­a Saint James the Greater and a Saint James the Less to hearken to your words and spread them far and wide, and all the attentive band to wait upon your wisdom!  Free!  We are tremendously free, but you must still be Lord and Master!  Well, say that I rebel—­”

“I see that you have done so,” said Jefferson, with irony. “I am not your Lord and Master.”

“I would not, if I could, have shunned this interview to-night.  For long we have felt this strain, and now the sharp break is over.  I shall sleep the better for it.”

“I am glad, sir, that you view it so.”

“For years I have worn your livery and trudged your road,—­that fair, wide country road with bleating sheep and farmer folk, all going to markets dull as death!  I’ve swincked and sweated for you on that road.  Now I’ll tread my own, though I come at last to the gates of Tartarus!  My service is done, sir; I’m out of livery.”

“Your road!” exclaimed the other.  “Where does it lie, and who are your fellow travellers?  John Randolph of Roanoke and the new Republicans? or monarchism and the Federalists?  Or have I the honour, to-night, to entertain a Virginian Caesar?—­perhaps even a Buonaparte?” His voice changed.  “Have you reflected, sir, that there is some danger in so free an expression of your mind?”