“‘Well?’ I said, in brief tones.
“‘It is ready, sir,’ Nighthawk replied, in a voice scarcely audible. I looked at him imperiously.
“‘And the servants are warned to keep silent?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Very well. Remain here until I return,’ I said.
“And I pointed to a seat, with a glance at Nighthawk, which said plainly to him, ‘Do not presume to attempt to turn me from my present purpose—it will be useless, and offensive to me.’
“He groaned, and sat down in the seat I indicated. His frame was bent and shrunken like that of an old man, in one evening. Since that moment, I have loved Nighthawk, my dear Surry; and he deserves it.
“Without delay I led the way to the carriage, which was driven by my father’s old gray-haired coachman, and entered it with Mortimer, directing the driver to follow the high-road down the river. He did so; we rolled on in the moonlight, or the shadow, as it came forth or disappeared behind the drifting clouds. The air was intensely cold. From beyond the woods came the hollow roar of the Nottoway, which was swollen by a freshet.
“Mortimer drew his cloak around him, but said nothing. In ten minutes I called to the old coachman to stop. He checked his spirited horses—I had some good ones then—and I descended from the carriage, with the foils under my arm, followed by Mortimer.
“The old coachman looked on in astonishment. The spot at which I had stopped the carriage was wild and dreary beyond expression.