“Yes, Dick.  It is true, Fair, damnably, devilishly true.  He had been dead for hours, Fair.”

“Joe White’s something of a doctor, sir,” put in Wilson.  “Joe said he would have been lying there since before the storm.”

Fairfax Cary drew a gasping breath “Lying there, suffering, through the storm and darkness?  Thrown?  Ill and fallen from his horse?  Major Edward, don’t play with me!” He started up.  “Where is he now?”

“We left him there, sir, just as he was, with Joe White to guard him.  My son, he undertook to rouse the nearest people.  I happened to know, sir, that the sheriff was staying overnight near Red Fields, and I sent him there first.  I told the coroner myself, and then I came as hard as I could ride to Greenwood, where I heard that you were here—­”

“It was thought best not to move him at once, Fair.  They are intelligent men, and they were right.”  The Major’s hand closed around the other’s wrist.  “He did not suffer, Fair.  He was not thrown.  He was shot—­shot through the heart!”

“And there, by God,” came from the steps Colonel Dick’s deep voice, “there, at least, there’s something to be done!  But oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!”

Unity came from the doorway, took her lover’s hands, and pressed them to her lips.  “Fair,” she whispered, “Fair!”

He kissed her on the forehead.  “There, dear!  We won’t sit under the catalpa tree this morning.  Eli! get the horses.”

“They have been ordered, Fair,” said the Colonel.  “We’ll go together, you and Edward and I.”

The little rocky strand above the stream upon the river road lay half in sun and half in shade.  After the storm the air was crystal.  Birds sang in the forest trees, and the stream laughed as it slid over ledges into deep pools.  The sky was blue, the day brilliant, a cool wind rustled through the laurels, and the wet earth sent out odours of mould and trodden leaf.  Perhaps a score of men and boys, engaged in excited talk and in as close a scrutiny of one quiet figure as a line which the sheriff had drawn would permit, turned at the sound of rapid hoofs and watched the Churchills and Fairfax Cary, with Wilson and Eli, come down to the stream.

“Back, all of you, men!” ordered the sheriff, in a low voice.  “That is Mr. Fairfax Cary”; then turned to a spectator or two of importance:  “Mr. Morris, Mr. Page—­I hope you’ll be so good as to meet them with me?  This is a dreadful thing!”

The Fontenoy party splashed through Indian Run and dismounted.  It was not an ungentle people, and the little strand, from the woods to the water, was now free from intruding figures.  Only the sheriff, the coroner, and the two planters, old friends and neighbours, remained, and these joined the Churchills.  Fairfax Cary walked alone to his brother’s side and stood, looking down.