Good-naturedly, laughing and talking after the morning’s restraint, the crowd, gentle and simple, from the lower part of the room, was in the course of jostling toward the door, when there came a sudden check coupled with exclamations from those nearest the bar, and with a general turning of heads and bodies in that direction.

The lawyer for the prosecution and the lawyer for the defence stood opposed, a yard of court-room floor between them, and around them a ring of excited friends and acquaintances.  There had been high voices, but now a silence fell, and the throng held its breath in cheerful expectation of the bursting of a long predicted storm.

“This,” said Cary’s clear and even voice, not raised, but smoothly distinct,—­“this is a challenge, sir.  I take it rightly, Mr. Rand?”

“You take it rightly, Mr. Cary.  I shall presently send a friend to wait upon you.”

“He will find me, sir, at the Swan.  As the challenged party, it is my prerogative to name hour and place.  You shall shortly be advised of both.”

“I am going to my office, sir, where I will await your messenger.  You cannot name an hour too soon, a place too near for me.”

“Of that I am aware, Mr. Rand.  I will make no delay that I conceive to be unnecessary.  I am, sir, your very humble servant.”

“I am yours, Mr. Cary.”

The two bowed profoundly and parted company, making their several ways through the throng to the Swan and to the office with the green door.  With them went their immediate friends and backers.  The crowd of spectators, talking loud or talking low, conjecturing, explaining, and laying down the law, jesting, disputing, hotly partisan, and on the whole very agreeably excited, finally got itself out of the Court House and the Court-House yard, and the autumn stillness settled down upon the place.

At Roselands, in the late afternoon, Jacqueline came out upon the doorstone and sat there, listening for Selim’s hoofs upon the road.  The weather was Indian summer, balmy, mild, and blue with haze.  On the great ring of grass before the stone yellow beech leaves were lying thick, and the grey limbs of the gigantic, solitary tree rose bare against the blue.  Jacqueline sat with her chin in her hand, watching the mountains, more visible now that the leaves were gone.  She saw the cleft through which ran the western road, and she thought with pleasure of the days before her.  She loved the journeys to Richmond, and this one would be more beautiful, and new.  They would be gone ten days, perhaps,—­ten days of slow, bright travel through sumptuous woods, of talk close and dear.  She was exquisitely happy as she sat there with her eyes upon the Blue Ridge.  The last fortnight of her stay at Fontenoy had been almost a blissful time.  Her uncles changed, and no longer passed her with averted eyes, or, when they spoke, used so cold a ceremony as to chill her heart.  They grew almost natural, they seemed even tender of