“Who?  Dalton?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not a man’s man,” the Major said, “and he doesn’t care in the least what you and I think of him.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“No, and he doesn’t care for—­stuffed birds—­and he doesn’t care for the Judge, and he doesn’t care for Mrs. Beaufort——­”

“Oh, you needn’t rub it in.  I know what he’s after.”

“Do you?”

“Yes——­”

The Major whistled softly a lilting tune.  He had been called “The Whistling Major” by his men and they had liked his clear piping.

He stopped abruptly.  “Well, you can’t build fences around lovely little ladies——­”

“I wish I could.  I’d like to shut her up in a tower——­”

They left it there.  It was really not a thing to be talked about.  They both knew it, and stopped in time.

Randy, climbing the outside stairs, presently, to his bedroom, turned at the upper landing to survey the scene spread out before him.  The hills were steeped in silence.  The world was black and gold—­the fragrance of the honeysuckle came up from the hedge below.  On such a night as this one could not sleep.  He felt himself restless, emotionally keyed up.  He descended the stairs.  Then, suddenly, he found himself taking the trail back towards Huntersfield.

He walked easily, following the path which led across the hills.  The distance was not great, and he had often walked it.  He loved a night like this.  As he came to a stretch of woodland, he went under the trees with the thrill of one who enters an enchanted forest.

An owl hooted overhead.  A whip-poor-will in a distant swamp sounded his plaintive call.

Randy could not have analyzed the instinct which sent him back to Becky.  It was not in the least to spy upon her, nor upon Dalton.  He only knew that he could not sleep, that something drew him on and on, as Romeo was drawn perchance to Capulet’s orchard.

He came out from under the trees to other hills.  He was still on his own land.  These acres had belonged to his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather, and back of that to a certain gallant gentleman who had come to Virginia with grants from the King.  There had been, too, a great chief, whose blood was in his veins, and who had roamed through this land before Europe knew it.  Powhatan was a rare old name to link with one’s own, and Randy had a Virginian’s pride in his savage strain.

So, as he went along, he saw canoes upon the shining river.  He saw tall forms with feathers blowing.  He saw fires on the heights.