Wildfoot had not spoken since we left the other men, and as he seemed to be in deep thought we did not interrupt him with vain questions, merely following him as he rode quietly into the thickest part of the woods behind the house. When he slipped from his horse there, we did likewise, and waited to see what he would do next.
"We will tie our horses here," he said. "No one will see them, and as they are old campaigners, they are too well trained to make a noise."
Again we imitated his example, and tethered our horses to the boughs of trees.
"Now," said Wildfoot, when that was done, "we will call on a lady."
The moon was shining a little, and I thought I saw a faint smile on his face. I was full of curiosity, and Marcel beside me uttered a little exclamation. The name of woman was always potent with this South Carolina Frenchman; but we said nothing, content, perforce, to be silent and wait.
"She is not so handsome as Miss Mary Desmond," continued Wildfoot, smiling again a little, and this time at me. "Few are; but as she finds no fault with it herself, none other should."
But Marcel had begun to brush his uniform with his hands, and settle the handsome sword, which was his proudest adornment, a little more rakishly by his side.
We walked to the door and knocked, and when some one within wished to know in a strong voice who was there, Wildfoot responded with a question.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yes," said the voice. "Who is it?"