"How do you mean to persuade Von Ritz?" insisted Don Alphonso.
"In the young Queen, who is the sole eligible candidate for the Throne, we have at heart an unwilling heir. Von Ritz distrusts France. Let the suggestion come from Portugal, a friend who can speak persuasively—and convincingly. Let him see the inevitable result unless he consents. Let all which we have done be denounced. Lead him to believe that he holds as steward"—Jusseret raised his hands as he concluded—"for Karyl's heir, if there should be one. These things are mere details."
Benton worked his way slowly to San Francisco through the Far East. It is not difficult to avoid newspapers between Ismaïlia and Manila, and with the dogged determination to let the day set by Cara answer all questions of his future, he had neither sought nor received tidings from Galavia.
He had not permitted himself great indulgence in hope. The past months had brought too many disappointments, and he knew that they had all been but episodes leading up to the climax which must come with the day when he inquired for a letter at "Idle Times."
He dreaded a return to "Idle Times" before the day set for his inquiry. Bristow's place stood for too much of memory, and the inevitable questions of his friend loomed before him, as the trifle which a man who has stood much more than trifles cannot bring himself to face. Yet there was no danger of his being late. That time was the one fixed point on the calendar of his future. One day before his three months had come to an end, he arrived, but he did not go to Van Bristow's house. He did not announce his coming. He went by the less frequented streets of the near-by village to its inadequate hotel, where he found only a drummer for a New York shoe house and a gentleman traveling "out of Chicago" with samples of ready-made clothing.
For a time he sat in the dingy parlor of the place and listened to the jarring talk of the commercial travelers. Already Galavia and the months which had been, seemed receding into an improbable dream, but the misery of their bequeathing was poignantly real.
He rose impatiently and made his way to the livery-stable, where he hired a saddle horse. His idea was merely to be alone. The reins hung on the neck of his spiritless mount and the roads he went were the roads it took of its own unguided selection.
Suddenly Benton looked up. He was in a lane between overarching trees; a lane which he remembered. Off to the side were the hills bristling with pines, raised against the sky like the lances of marching troops. It was the road he had ridden with her on that day when her horse fell at the fence—and there, on the side of the hill, stood a dilapidated cabin: the cabin upon whose porch he had poured water over her hands from a gourd dipper.
It was only the end of September, but an early frost had flushed the woods and hillsides into a hint of the crimson and gold they were soon to wear in more profligate splendor. The fragrant, blue mist of wood smoke drifted over the fields at the foot of the knobs. The hills were seen through a wash of purple. From somewhere to the far left drifted the mellowed music of fox-hounds. Riding slowly, the man came at length to the cabin gate.