"My orders were to go to the big blazed Basswood-tree, sir, four miles farther," observed the soldier, in a firm but respectful tone, "and I must obey orders."
"You are right," said Lord H----, pleased with the man's demeanour. "What is your name, corporal?"
"Clithero, my lord," replied the man, with a military salute--"Corporal Clithero."
Lord H---- bowed his head; and the party, remounting, pursued their way. The road, however, as the negro had said, was more difficult in advance than it had been nearer to Sir William Johnson's settlement, and it took the whole party an hour to reach the great Basswood-tree, which had been mentioned, and which was marked out from the rest of the forest by three large marks upon the bark, hewn by some surveyor's axe when the road had been laid out. There the party stopped for a moment or two, and with a few words of thanks, Mr. Prevost and his companions parted from their escort.
"How dim the air along the path is!" ejaculated Lord H----, looking on; "and yet the sun, getting to the west, is shining right down it through the valley. One could almost imagine it was filled with smoke."
"This is what we call a smoky day in America," replied Mr. Prevost; "but I never knew the Indian summer come on us with such a wind."
No more was said on that matter at the time; and, as the road grew narrower, Mr. Prevost and the negro, as best acquainted with the way, rode first, while Lord H---- followed by Edith's side, conversing with her in quiet and easy tones; but with words which sometimes caused the colour to vary a little in her cheek.
These words were not exactly words of love. Write them down, and they might have very little meaning--less application; but all things have such a harmony throughout the universe, that everything separated from its accessories means nothing, or worse than nothing. His tones, I have said, were low and easy; but they were tender, too. His words were not words of love, but they had a fire in them that nothing but love could give; and the contrast between the low, easy tone, and that rich, glowing language, added all that was needful to give them the meaning of the heart, rather than the meaning of dictionaries. He spoke of her singing the night before, and of music in general; he spoke of the beauties of the scenery, the tints of the landscape; he spoke of the old world and the new, and society and solitude. But it mattered not; whatever he spoke of, he thought of Edith Prevost, and there was something that showed her he did so.
Thus they went on for some four miles farther; and the evening was evidently closing round them rapidly, though no ray had yet passed from the sky. Suddenly Mr. Prevost drew in his rein, saying, in a low but distinct voice to the negro, "What is that crossing the road?"
"No Ingin," cried the negro, whose eyes had been constantly bent forward.