I rose and walked to the window, turning my back on the picture which persisted in shaping itself upon the hearth-rug. Westward across the houseroofs that stretched to Hudson's River the sun was slowly sinking in one of those magnificent displays of coloring that only the New World can show. It meant nothing to me. I turned impatiently, and retraced my steps.
A myriad ghosts swarmed before my eyes, ghosts of London, of Paris, of the wilderness, of many other places, kings, queens, great lords, priests, soldiers, merchants, heroes and cowards, honest men and scoundrels, Indians in war paint, courtiers in five-pound ruffles—but in front of them all stood the one ghost I could never avoid, lips always parted as if for a kiss, brown eyes glowing with love.
I shuddered.
The door opened behind me.
"Master Ormerod!" 'Twas Allen. "I knocked, but you did not hear. There are gentry to see you, sir."
"I'm in no mood to see people," I answered fiercely.
"But these——"
"Send them away. I'll not be annoyed with them."
The door was thrown open again with a crash.
"How now, Ormerod," bellowed a choleric voice. "Is this the way to treat my dignity, let alone my friendship? Must you keep me cooling my heels on your doorstep the while you consider the order of my admittance? Look to yourself, lad, or I'll have you shackled in the dungeons of Fort George. Ay, and there's another hath reason for distemper with you. Whilst I have walked so far from the Bowling Green, he is new-arrived from the Iroquois country, and mainly that he may deliver you a belt, if what I hear be true."