They rode together to Elm Tree, and parted under these conditions.

Lewis Rand left Richmond on the third of September.  He travelled rapidly.  There were no kinsmen to detain him on the road, and while he had hot partisans and was not without friends, there was not within him the Virginian instinct to loiter among these last, finding the flower in the moment, and resolutely putting off the morrow.  His quest was for the morrow.

He rode now in the hot September weather, by field and forest, hill and dale and stream, and rested only when he would spare the horses.  Young Isham was with him; Joab had been sent on with Jacqueline.  When night fell, he drew rein at the nearest house.  If he knew the people, well; if he did not know them, well still; on both sides acquaintance would be enlarged.  Hospitality was a Virginian virtue; no one ever dreamed of being unwelcome because he was a stranger.  In the morning, after thanks and proffers of all possible service, he took the road again.  It was his purpose to make the journey, despite the heat, in three days.

The last night upon the road he spent at a small tavern hard by an important crossroads.  It was twilight when he dismounted, the fireflies thick in the oak scrub and up and down the pale roads, a crescent moon in the sky, and from somewhere the sound of wind in the pine-tops.  Young Isham and the hostler took away the horses, and Rand, mounting the steps to the porch, found lounging there the inn’s usual half-dozen haphazard guests.  To most of these he was known by sight, to all by name, and as, with a “Good-evening, gentlemen!” he passed into the low, whitewashed main room, he left behind him more animation than he had found.  When, a little later, he went into the supper-room, he discovered at table, making heavy inroads upon the bacon and waffles, an old acquaintance—­Mr. Ned Hunter.

“Mr. Hunter, good-evening.”

“Hey—­what—­the Devil!  Good-evening to you, Mr. Rand.  So, after all, your party, sir, didn’t hang Colonel Burr!”

The two ate supper with the long table between them, and with no great amiability of feeling in presence.  The Republican was the first to end the meal, and the Federalist answered his short bow with an even more abbreviated salute.  Rand went out into the porch, where there were now only one or two lounging figures, and sat down at the head of the steps.  Mr. Hunter came presently, too, into the air, and leaned against the railing, whistling to the dogs in the yard.

“You are going on in the morning, Mr. Rand?”

“Yes.  At dawn.”

“You’ll be in Charlottesville, then, by two o’clock.  Earlier, if you take the river road.”

“I shall take the river road.”

“It is broken riding, but it is the quickest way.  Well, I won’t be many hours behind you!  My humble regards, if you please, to Mrs. Rand.  There’s nothing now at Fontenoy but wedding talk.  I am sure I hope Miss Dandridge may be happy!  Here, Di! here, Rover! here, Vixen!”