As the group passed the slave-quarters, Thompson, the overseer, came towards them with the key to the stables. And while Trevor, Paca, and Claude went with him round to the stalls, the rest entered the field itself to wait. The ladies, all of them more or less curious to watch this test of de Mailly's horsemanship, stood still in the open gateway, nervous lest the horse should come too near. In the interval of waiting Rockwell was devoting himself to Lucy, who received his attentions with a coldness all but rude; young Jennings talked with Virginia and her mother, who stood a little to one side; and Fairfield seized the opportunity of conversing in a low tone with Deborah, who, dressed in yellow and blue, was as pretty as the morning itself. She stood leaning close against the fence, all ears for Sir Charles, but not turning her eyes from the closed door of the stable, responding now and then, half absently, to the very personal remarks of her cavalier. She did not perceive a sudden, slow rustle at her side, along the very ruffle of her dress; but suddenly the lieutenant darted forward.
"Good God, Deborah!—Move—"
"What is it?" she cried, startled at his tone.
He was peering along the grass in front of them. "I'd stake my oath—'twas a water-moccasin," he muttered, half to himself.
The girl lifted her petticoats with both hands and shrank close to him. "A water-moccasin! Surely not here—" She stared nervously at the turf, but saw nothing. The snake, if there had been one, was gone.
"Nay—'tisn't there. Don't be frightened. It was a fancy," he rejoined, suspicious of his own eyes.
Deborah might have said more or retreated to Madam Trevor, but for the fact that, at this moment, the stable doors slid open and Castor, with de Mailly on his back, trotted into the field. Will Paca and Vincent followed him on foot and made their way over to the party in the gateway.
Castor, first-born of twin foals, and the one who had all the strength and beauty alike of the two, was an enormous jet-black animal, seventeen hands high, with a long, swinging step and three paces got from no blooded ancestors, but merely through one of those accidents sometimes permitted by the gods. He was an animal fiery enough of temper, and particular about his riders. Vincent Trevor, indeed, had been dubious about the Frenchman's ability even to mount him; but as Claude swung into the saddle and took the reins from the shining black neck, all doubts were forgotten. Castor turned his head, glanced at the man who sat him so easily, and neighed with satisfaction. As they trotted together into the paddock Claude rode in the French fashion, as though he were part of the horse, never rising in the saddle.
"Egad, he knows how!" observed Rockwell to Madam Trevor, as Castor came round the field towards them.
"I vow I've seen nothing so pretty," assented that lady, good-humoredly. "Eh, Lucy?"