“Rather allow me, sir, to express my gratitude—­” and so on through the stilted compliment of the day.  Assurances from both sides over at last, and the chaise discharged, the one walked briskly down the unpaved street toward the Eagle, and the other entered quietly the bare and business-like room from whose window, last February, he had fed the snowbirds.  The room was not vacant.  Before the table, with his arms upon it, and his head upon his arms, sat Mocket.  At the sound of the closing door he started up, stared at Rand, then fell back with a gasp of relief, and the water in his eyes.

“Lewis?  Thank the Lord!”

“It’s Lewis,” said the other.  “My good old fellow, did you think only to see my ghost?  Well, the comedy is over.”

“Lord! it’s been a long hour!” breathed his associate.  “What did you do to him, Lewis?”

“He has a ball through his shoulder.  It is not serious.  I don’t want to talk about it, Tom.”  Rand spoke abruptly, and, walking to his desk, sat down, drew a piece of paper toward him, and dipped a quill into the ink-well.  “Is Young Isham there?  He is to take this note to the house, to Mrs. Rand.”

Mocket went to find Young Isham.  Rand, alone in the room, wrote in his strong, plain hand:——­

     JACQUELINE:—­We met an hour ago.  He is slightly wounded—­through
     the shoulder.  I tell you truth, it is in no wise dangerous.  I am
     unhurt.

The hand travelling across the sheet of paper paused, and Rand sat for a moment motionless, looking straight before him; then, with an indrawn breath, he dipped the quill again into the ink and wrote on,——­

     He fired into the air.

     Thine, Lewis.

He sanded the paper, folded and sealed it, sat for a moment longer, leaning back in his heavy chair, then rose and himself gave the missive to Young Isham, with orders to make no tarrying between the office and the house on Shockoe Hill.  Rand’s slaves had for him a dog-like affection combined with a dog-like fear of his eye in anger.  The boy went at once, and the master returned to the waiting Tom.  “The Washington stage is in,” he said.  “I am going now to the Eagle, and you had best come with me.  Then back here, and to work!  Where is that man from the Bienville at Norfolk?”

“He’s waiting at the Indian Queen.  I can get him here in ten minutes.  This morning’s Argus says that the Bienville of New Orleans sails on Saturday—­valuable cargo and no passengers.”

“Ah,” said Rand; “the Argus’s eyes are heavy.”

“A half-breed hunter was here this morning.  He says that, ten days ago, crossing the Endless Mountains with his face to the east, he met the great hunter they call Golden-Tongue walking very fast, with his face to the west.  Learning that he was on his way to Richmond, Golden-Tongue gave him this to be delivered in silence to you.”  Mocket took from the table a feather and held it out to the other.