Audrey

Juba, setting candles upon a table in Haward's bedroom, chanced to spill

melted wax upon his master's hand, outstretched on the board. "Damn you!"

cried Haward, moved by sudden and uncontrollable irritation. "Look what

you are doing, sirrah!"

The negro gave a start of genuine surprise. Haward could punish,--Juba had

more than once felt the weight of his master's cane,--but justice had

always been meted out with an equable voice and a fine impassivity of

countenance. "Don't stand there staring at me!" now ordered the master as

irritably as before. "Go stir the fire, draw the curtains, shut out the

night! Ha, Angus, is that you?"

MacLean crossed the room to the fire upon the hearth, and stood with his

eyes upon the crackling logs. "You kindle too soon your winter fire," he

said. "These forests, flaming red and yellow, should warm the land."

"Winter is at hand. The air strikes cold to-night," answered Haward, and,

rising, began to pace the room, while MacLean watched him with compressed

lips and gloomy eyes. Finally he came to a stand before a card table, set

full in the ruddy light of the fire, and taking up the cards ran them

slowly through his fingers. "When the lotus was all plucked and Lethe

drained, then cards were born into the world," he said sententiously.

"Come, my friend, let us forget awhile."

They sat down, and Haward dealt.

"I came to the house landing before sunset," began the storekeeper slowly.

"I found you gone."

"Ay," said Haward, gathering up his cards. "'Tis yours to play."

"Juba told me that you had called for Mirza, and had ridden away to the

glebe house."

"True," answered the other. "And what then?"

There was a note of warning in his voice, but MacLean did not choose to

heed. "I rowed on down the river, past the mouth of the creek," he

continued, with deliberation. "There was a mound of grass and a mass of

colored vines"-"And a blood-red oak," finished Haward coldly. "Shall we pay closer regard

to what we are doing? I play the king."

"You were there!" exclaimed the Highlander. "You--not Jean Hugon--searched

for and found the poor maid's hiding-place." The red came into his tanned

cheek. "Now, by St. Andrew!" he began; then checked himself.

Haward tapped with his finger the bit of painted pasteboard before him. "I

play the king," he repeated, in an even voice; then struck a bell, and

when Juba appeared ordered the negro to bring wine and to stir the fire.

The flames, leaping up, lent strange animation to the face of the lady

above the mantelshelf, and a pristine brightness to the swords crossed

beneath the painting. The slave moved about the room, drawing the curtains

more closely, arranging all for the night. While he was present the

players gave their attention to the game, but with the sound of the

closing door MacLean laid down his cards.