Rand passed along the old, familiar road.  He travelled neither fast nor slow, and he kept a level gaze.  The May morning was fresh and sweet, the land to either side ploughed earth or vernal green, the little stream laughing through the meadow.  He passed a field where negroes were transplanting tobacco, and his mind noted the height and nature of the leaf.  At the Greenwood road he looked mechanically toward the distant house, but upon this morning he hardly thought of Cary.  He thought of Gideon Rand, and of the great casks of tobacco which he and his father used to roll; of the old, strong horses, and of a lean and surly dog that they had owned; of the slow journeys, and of their fires at night, beneath the gum and the pine, beside wastes of broom sedge.

He came into Charlottesville and rode down Main Street to the Eagle, where he dismounted.  A negro took his horse.  “Put him up,” directed Rand, “until he is called for.”  He kept his hand for a moment upon Selim’s neck, then turned and walked down the street and into the Court House yard.

The shady place had always a contingent of happy idlers, men and boys lounging under the trees or upon the Court House steps.  These greeted Lewis Rand with deference, and turned from their bountiful lack of occupation to watch him cross the grass and enter the Court House.  “He’s gone,” remarked one, “straight to the sheriff’s office.  What’s his business there?”

The next day and the next the idlers in the Court House yard knew all the business, and rolled it under their tongues.  They loved a tragedy, and this curtain had gone up with promise.  Had they not seen Lewis Rand walk into the yard—­had they not spoken to him and he to them—­had they not watched him enter the Court House?  The boy who minded the sheriff’s door found himself a hero, and the words treasured that fell from his tongue.  It was true that he had been sent away and so had heard but little, but the increasing crowd found that little of interest.  “Yes, sir, that’s what he said, and just as quiet as you are!  ’Is the sheriff in, Michael?’ he asked.  ‘Tell him, please, that I want to see him.’  That’s what he said, and Mr. Garrett he calls out, ’Come in, Mr. Rand, come in!’”

Other voices claimed attention.  “And when they dragged Indian Run yesterday, there was the pistol at the bottom of a pool—­his name upon it, just as he told them it would be—­”

“Fairfax Cary was in the court room yesterday when he was committed.  He and Lewis Rand spoke to each other, but no one heard what they said.”

The boy came to the front again.  “I didn’t hear much that morning before Mr. Garrett sent me away, but I heard why he gave himself up.  I thought it wasn’t much of a reason—­”

The crowd pressed closer, “What was it, Michael, what was it?”

“It sounds foolish,” answered the boy, “but I’ve got it right.  He said he must have sleep.”