“Yes.  If the murderer stooped to know if life was out, it might have happened so.”

“He was not pale, I think, but he spoke in a strange voice.  ‘Ha!’ he said, ’I started a doe ten minutes since, and gave her chase through the wood.  Now I will rejoin my boy a little way down the road.  Are you on your way to Charlottesville?’ I told him I would go to Red Fields, upon which he said adieu and turned his horse.  A little later he and his boy passed me, riding in a cloud of dust and under black skies.”  The dancing master raised a glass of water that was upon the table and moistened his lips.  “This, Mr. Cary, is all my aid.  I admired your brother, and there is, sir, a something about you that returns Charles to my memory.  If it pleases you, and if our host will lend me a horse, I will ride with you in the morning, as far at least as the oak and that red bank down which he came.”

“I accept your offer, sir,” answered the other, “with gratitude.  You did not chance to notice his holsters?”

“No—­except that his saddle had holsters.  I have seen his pistols.  I saw them one night at Monticello.  He told me that they were a gift from his patron.”

“Yes.  They were given by Mr. Jefferson, and the other’s name is upon them.  Moreover, he travelled armed from Richmond to Roselands.  I acquired that knowledge in the autumn.  I would that iron could speak—­if it could, and if human effort be of avail, I would yet have those pistols in my holding!”

He took the map from the table, rolled it up, and restored it to its place.  “It grows late,” he said.  “Let us to bed and to sleep.  It is the eve of a decisive engagement, M. de Pincornet.  If you’ll permit me, I will call you at five.  Remus shall make us coffee, and we’ll make free with a horse for you from the stables.  Then the road again! but this time I go no farther than the ford, on that white ribbon yonder.  You shall keep the highroad, but I will take the river road, and yet I’ll hold tryst with you beneath that riven oak!” He began to put out the candles.  “I shall sleep and sleep well until dawn, and I wish for you, sir, as good a night.  For the aid which you have given me, I am most heartily your servant.”

Alone in the little room, he straightened, mechanically, the objects upon the table, paced for a time or two the narrow, cell-like place, then went out again upon the porch and stood with his hands on the railing, and his eyes raised to the white moon, full and serene in the cloudless night.  “For without,” he said, “are dogs and sorcerers and murderers and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.”  He stood for a long while without movement, but at last let fall his hands, turned, and went indoors.  When, a little later, he threw himself upon his bed and drew his hand across his eyes, he found that it was wet with tears.  He spoke aloud, though hardly above his breath.  “No, Ludwell, no!  In this sole thing I am right.  It is not revenge.  I am not vindictive, I am not revengeful.  This is justice, and I can no other than pursue it.  It will not grieve you where you are.”  He turned and buried his face in the pillow.  “O brother—­O friend—­”