I could but contrast that ride with a similar one I had taken some months back, when the snow was drifted deep over the path. Much had happened since then. I had fought and loved, and fought, and still was loving. And the love was of more strength than all the battles.
I spurred the horse on, while over and over in my heart I sang but one song, and the name of it was Lucille.
CHAPTER X.
THE MAN AT THE INN.
At length the friendly tavern of Master Willis came into view. When I had reached it, weary and travel-stained, I dismounted, calling for a stable lad to see to the horse. I would but stop, I thought, to get a change of raiment, snatch a hasty bite, and hurry on to greet Lucile.
“Have the dead returned?” quoth Willis, joyfully, as I strode into the big room.
“Nay; ’tis myself in the flesh,” I answered, “as you may know, when I tell you that I am most woefully hungry. Some meat and drink, I pray you, for I must away soon again.”
The tavern keeper bestirred himself to much advantage, and it was not long ere there was plenty on the round table. I drew up a chair, and, while I lingered somewhat over the food, I had time to look about the familiar apartment.
In one corner I noticed a man seated. His legs were stretched out in lazy comfort, one foot crossed over the other, while, with a riding whip in his hand, he switched at his boots. He seemed not to notice me, so that I had a chance to take a good look at him. Then I knew him for the same man who had ridden down to the beach, the day the sloops sailed; the mysterious messenger of the night, the man with whom I had nearly come to sword strokes in the Governor’s room. I own I was startled, for I could not help feeling that something portended of no happy omen.
Once he caught me looking at him, but he said nothing until I had finished. Then he rose, lifted his hat from his head, and snapped his whip so that it cracked like a pistol shot.
“Good day to you, Captain Amherst,” he said. “May I have the honor of a few words?”