The duke looked disappointed, but bowed gravely and answered: 

“Of course; pray do not let me be a hindrance to your more important occupations, Mrs. Rothsay.”

“Thank you!” she answered, a little vaguely, and with a smile she left the room,

    “Rejoicing to be free!”

The duke anathematized his fate in finding so much difficulty in the way of his wooing, his ladylove evading him with a grace, a coolness, and a courtesy which he was constrained to respect.

He strolled into the library, and then loitered along on the path leading down to the ferry.

Here he found the boat at the little wharf and old Lebanon on duty.

“Sarvint, marster,” said the old negro, touching his rimless old felt hat.  “Going over?”

“Yes, my man,” said the duke, stepping on board the boat.

“W’ich dey calls me Uncle Lebnum as mentions ob me in dese parts, marster,” the old ferryman explained, touching his hat.

“Oh, they do?  Very well.  I will remember,” said the passenger, as the boat was pushed off from the shore.

“How many trips do you make in a day?” inquired the fare.

“Pen’s ‘pon how many people is a-comin’ an’ goin’.  Some days I don’t make no trip at all.  Oder days, w’en dere’s a weddin’ or a fun’al, I makes many as fifty.”

The passage was soon made, and the duke stepped out on the west bank.

“Is there any path leading to the top of this ridge, Uncle—­Lemuel?” inquired the duke.

“Lebnum, young marster, if you please!  Lebnum!—­w’ich dere is no paff an’ no way o’ gettin’ to de top o’ dis wes’ range, jes’ ’cause ’tis too orful steep; but ef you go ‘bout fo’ mile up de road, you’d come to a paff leadin’ zigzag, wall o’ Troy like, up to Siffier’s Roos’.”

“Zephyr’s—­what?”

“Roos’, marster.  Yes, sar.  W’ich so ’tis call ‘cause she usen to roos’ up dar, jes’ like ole turkey buzzard.  W’en you get up dar, you can see ober free States.  Yes, sar, ‘cause dat p’ints w’ere de p’ints o’ boundy lines ob free States meets—­yes, sah!”

“I think I will take a walk to that point.  I suppose I can find the path?”

“You can’t miss it, sah, if you keeps a sharp look-out.  About fo’ miles up, sah”

“Very well.  Shall you be here when I come back?”

“No, sah.  Dis ain’t my stoppin’ place; t’other side is.  But I’ll be on de watch dere, and ef you holler for me, I’ll come.  I’ll come anyways, ’cause I’ll be sure to see you.”

“Quite so,” said the duke, as he sauntered up that very road between the foot of the mountain and the bank of the river down which the festive crowd had come on Corona Haught’s fatal wedding day.

An hour’s leisurely walk brought him to the first cleft in the rock.

From the back of this the path ascended, with many a double, to the wooded shelf on which old Scythia’s hut had once stood—­hidden.  When he reached the spot he found nothing but charred logs, blasted trees, and ashes, as if the spot had been wasted by fire.