“It’s not so bad.”

“You sho wuz ressless in yo sleep—­a-talkin’ an’ a-turnin’ an’ sayin’ you mustn’t keep de cote waitin’.  I done sit by you ter keep de kivers on twill de cock crow.  What you reckon you said to me?  You said, ’Is dat you, Gineral Buonaparte?’”

Rand laughed, “Did you say, ‘Yes, sire my brother?’”

“No, sah, I say, ‘Hit’s Joab, Marse Lewis.’  I gwine now ter git de water to shave you ef dar’s fire in de kitchen.  Folks git up moughty late at Fontenoy.  I don’ know when I gwine git yo breakfast.”

An hour later appeared the master of the house, red and jovial, solicitous for his guest’s comfort, and prodigal of suggestions for his ease and entertainment.  Not until Rand was well and gone from Fontenoy would Colonel Dick let his mind rest upon the indubitable fact that here had been an upstart and an enemy.  Hard upon the Colonel’s steps came the doctor.  Arm and ankle and wounded head were doing well—­there was no fever to speak of—­Mr. Rand had an unabused constitution and would make a rapid recovery.  For precaution’s sake, best let a little blood.  Rest, gruel, and quiet, and in a few days Mr. Rand would be downstairs with the ladies.  The blood was let, and the doctor rode away.  Joab and the culprit Selim went on Rand’s errands to the town and to the home on the Three-Notched Road.  Mammy Chloe, in white apron and kerchief and coloured turban, presented herself with a curtsy, delivered kindly messages from the ladies of the house, and sat down with her sewing in the little adjoining room.  The morning advanced, sunny and peaceful, with vague sounds, faint laughter from distant rooms, droning of bees, and rustling of cool poplar leaves.

Rand, lying high upon his pillows, stopped his work of writing with his left hand to listen to a step coming up the polished stairway and along the passage leading to his room.  His ear was almost as quick and accurate as was Adam Gaudylock’s, and he rightly thought he knew the step.  A somewhat strange smile was on his lips when Ludwell Cary knocked lightly at the blue room door.  “Come in!” called Rand, and Cary, entering, closed the door behind him and came up to the bed with an outstretched hand and a pleasant light upon his handsome face.

“Ah, Mr. Rand,” he said, smiling, “I see my revenge.  I shall sit each day by your bedside, and read you the Federalist!  How is the arm?  Your right!  That’s bad!”

“It will heal,” answered Rand.  “Will you not take a chair?”

Cary pushed the easy chair nearer the bed, and sat down.  “The ladies charge me,” he said pleasantly, “with more messages of sympathy and hopes for your recovery than I can remember.  Miss Dandridge vows that you have supplanted in her affections the hero of her favourite romance.  ’Twas she and my brother, you know, who found you upon the road.  Colonel Churchill and the county must mend that turn where you came to grief.  It is a dangerous place.”