I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous dress of those who watched.  There had been many, many more in former years, so I heard people say.  This was the only sign that a war was in progress,—­the scanty number of gentry present,—­for all save the indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere.  I recall it dimly, as a blaze of color passing:  merrymaking, jesting, feasting,—­a rare contrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay but a while before.  Yet so runs the world,—­strife at one man’s home, and peace and contentment at his neighbor’s; sorrow here, and rejoicing not a league away.

Master Nicholas played one prank that evening that was near to costing dear.  My lady Temple made up a party for Temple Bow at the course, two other coaches to come and some gentlemen riding.  As Nick and I were running through the paddock we came suddenly upon Mr. Harry Riddle and a stout, swarthy gentleman standing together.  The stout gentleman was counting out big gold pieces in his hand and giving them to Mr. Riddle.

“Lucky dog!” said the stout gentleman; “you’ll ride back with her, and you’ve won all I’ve got.”  And he dug Mr. Riddle in the ribs.

“You’ll have it again when we play to-night, Darnley,” answered Mr. Riddle, crossly.  “And as for the seat in the coach, you are welcome to it.  That firebrand of a lad is on the front seat.”

“D—­n the lad,” said the stout gentleman.  “I’ll take it, and you can ride my horse.  He’ll—­he’ll carry you, I reckon.”  His voice had a way of cracking into a mellow laugh.

At that Mr. Riddle went off in a towering bad humor, and afterwards I heard him cursing the stout gentleman’s black groom as he mounted his great horse.  And then he cursed the horse as it reared and plunged, while the stout gentleman stood at the coach door, cackling at his discomfiture.  The gentleman did ride home with Mrs. Temple, Nick going into another coach.  I afterwards discovered that the gentleman had bribed him with a guinea.  And Mr. Riddle more than once came near running down my pony on his big charger, and he swore at me roundly, too.

That night there was a gay supper party in the big dining room at Temple Bow.  Nick and I looked on from the gallery window.  It was a pretty sight.  The long mahogany board reflecting the yellow flames of the candles, and spread with bright silver and shining dishes loaded with dainties, the gentlemen and ladies in brilliant dress, the hurrying servants,—­all were of a new and strange world to me.  And presently, after the ladies were gone, the gentlemen tossed off their wine and roared over their jokes, and followed into the drawing-room.  This I noticed, that only Mr. Harry Riddle sat silent and morose, and that he had drunk more than the others.

“Come, Davy,” said Nick to me, “let’s go and watch them again.”

“But how?” I asked, for the drawing-room windows were up some distance from the ground, and there was no gallery on that side.