Edward was awakened by a cowhorn blown just before the peep of day and the frantic baying of the hounds that Charlie Possum was bringing to the house. As he dressed and came forth the echos of horses' feet were heard in the distance upon the public roads and the cry of other hounds, and as the gray dawn lighted the east the outer yard presented an animated scene. About a dozen riders were dismounting or dismounted were trying to force a place between the multitude of dogs, great and small, that were settling old and new disputes rough and tumble, tooth and toe nail.
There was little of the holiday attire that is usually seen at club meets; the riders wore rough clothing and caps and their small slender horses were accoutered with saddles and bridles that had been distinctly "worn." But about all was a business air and promise of genuine sport. Many of the dogs were of the old "July" stock, descendants of a famous Maryland dog of 40 years before, whose progeny scattered throughout Georgia constitute canine aristocracy wherever found—a slender-flanked, fullchested animal, with markings of black and tan. Among them were their English rivals of larger form and marked with blotches of red and white.
The servants were busy getting light refreshments for the riders. Mary was the superintendent of this, but at the same time she was presiding over a ceremony dear to the old south at all hours of the day. Into each generous cut glass goblet that lined her little side table she poured a few spoonsful of sweetened water, packing them with crushed ice. Down through the little arctic heaps, a wineglassful of each, she poured a ruby liquor grown old in the deep cellar, and planted above the radiated pyramids little forests of mint. Nothing but silver is worthy to hold such works of art, and so getting out an old, well-worn Montjoy silver, its legend and crest almost faded into the general smoothness of their background, she placed them there and began her ministry in the long dining room. She made a pretty picture as she passed among the men, her short, narrowskirted riding dress and little felt hat setting off her lithe, active form perfectly. The ceremony was simple and short. Everybody was eager to be off.
Just as they mounted and rode out, Mary appeared from somewhere, mounted upon a half broken colt, that betrayed a tendency to curve herself into a half-moon, and gallop broadside against fences and trees that were inconveniently located.
Edward viewed the mount with alarm. Though a fairly good rider, he was not up to cross country runs and he questioned his ability to be of much assistance should the half broken animal bolt, with its fair burden. He proposed an exchange, but Mary laughed at the idea.
"Lorna is all right," she said, "but you could never get her out of the yard. She will steady up after awhile, and the best of horses can't beat her in getting round corners and over fences."
"Daughter," said the colonel, checking his horse as he prepared to follow, "are you sure of Lorna?"
"Perfectly. She is going to do her worst for a while and then her best. Steady girl; don't disgrace yourself before company." Lorna danced and tossed her head and chewed upon her bit with impatience.
At that moment Barksdale rode into the yard, mounted upon a tall thoroughbred, his equipments perfect, dress elegant, seat easy and carriage erect. He seemed to Edward a perfect horseman. He gravely saluted them both.
"I see that I am in the nick of time, Miss Mary; I was afraid it was late."