An hour before dusk found the company that had dined in the valley making their way up the dry bed of a stream, through a gorge which cleft a line of precipitous hills.  On either hand the bank rose steeply, giving no footing for man or beast.  The road was a difficult one; for here a tall, fern-crowned rock left but a narrow passage between itself and the shaggy hillside, and there smooth and slippery ledges, mounting one above the other, spanned the way.  In places, too, the drought had left pools of dark, still water, difficult to avoid, and not infrequently the entire party must come to a halt while the axemen cleared from the path a fallen birch or hemlock.  Every man was afoot, none caring to risk a fall upon the rocks or into the black, cold water of the pools.  The hoofs of the horses and the spurs of the men clanked against the stones; now and then one of the heavily laden packhorses stumbled and was sworn at, and once a warning rattle, issuing from a rank growth of fern on the hillside, caused a momentary commotion.  There was no more laughter, or whistling, or calling from the van to the rear guard.  The way was arduous, and every man must watch his footsteps; moreover, the last rays of the sun were gilding the hilltops above them, and the level that should form their camping-place must be reached before the falling of the night.

The sunlight had all but faded from the heights, when one of the company, stumbling over a round and mossy rock, measured his length upon the ground, amid his own oaths at his mishap, and the exclamations of the man immediately in his rear, whose progress he had thus unceremoniously blocked.  The horse of the fallen man, startled by the dragging at the reins, reared and plunged, and in a moment the entire column was in disorder.  When the frightened animals were at last quieted, and the line re-formed, the Governor called out to know who it was that had fallen, and whether any damage had been suffered.

“It was Mr. Haward, sir!” cried two or three; and presently the injured gentleman himself, limping painfully, and with one side of his fine green coat all stained by reason of contact with a bit of muddy ground, appeared before his Excellency.

“I have had a cursed mishap, saving your presence, sir,” he explained.  “The right ankle is, I fear, badly sprained.  The pain, is exquisite, and I know not how I am to climb mountains.”

The Governor uttered an exclamation of concern:  “Unfortunate!  Dr. Robinson must look to the hurt at once.”

“Your Excellency forgets my dispute with Dr. Robinson as to the dose of Jesuit bark for my servant,” said the sufferer blandly.  “Were I in extremis I should not apply to him for relief.”

“I’ll lay my life that you are not in extremis now,” retorted the doctor.  “If ever I saw a man with a sprained ankle keep his color so marvelously, or heard him speak in so composed a tone!  The pain must be of a very unusual degree indeed!”

“It is,” answered Mr. Haward calmly.  “I cannot possibly go on in this condition, your Excellency, nor can I dream of allowing my unlucky accident to delay this worshipful company in their ascent of the mountains.  I will therefore take my servant and ride slowly back to the cabin which we left this afternoon.  Doubtless the worthy pioneer will give me shelter until my foot is healed, and I will rejoin your Excellency upon your return through the valley.”

As he spoke, for the greater ease of the injured member, he leaned against a towering lock.  He was a handsome youth, with a trick of keeping an unmoved countenance under even such a fire of laughter and exclamation as greeted his announcement.

“And for this you would lose the passing of the Appalachian Mountains!” cried Spotswood.  “Why, man! from those heights we may almost see Lake Erie; may find out how near we are to the French, how easily the mountains may be traversed, what promise of success should his Majesty determine to plant settlements beyond them or to hold the mountain passes!  There is service to be done and honor to be gained, and you would lag behind because of a wrenched ankle!  Zoons, sir! at Blenheim I charged a whole regiment of Frenchmen, with a wound in my breast into which you might have thrust your hand!”

The younger man shrugged his shoulders.  “Beggars may not be choosers,” he said coolly.  “The sunlight is fast fading, and if we would be out of this gorge before nightfall we must make no further tarrying.  I have your Excellency’s permission to depart?”

One of the gentlemen made a low-voiced but audible remark to his neighbor, and another hummed a line from a love song.  The horses moved impatiently amongst the loose stones, and the rangers began to mutter that night would be upon them before they reached a safer footing.

“Mr. Haward!  Mr. Haward!” said the Governor sternly.  “It is in my mind that you meditate inflicting a greater harm than you have received.  Let me tell you, sir, if you think to so repay a simple-minded hospitality”

Mr. Haward’s eyes narrowed.  “I own Colonel Spotswood for Governor of Virginia,” he said, speaking slowly, as was his wont when he was angry.  “His office does not, I think, extend farther than that.  As for these pleasant-minded gentlemen who are not protected by their rank I beg to inform them that in my fall my sword arm suffered no whit.”

Turning, he beckoned to a negro who had worked his way from the servants in the rear, along the line of rangers, to the outskirts of the group of gentlemen gathered around the Governor and the injured man.  “Juba,” he ordered, “draw your horse and mine to one side.  Your Excellency, may I again remind you that it draws toward nightfall, and that this road will be no pleasant one to travel in the dark?”

What he said was true; moreover, upon the setting out of the expedition it had been laughingly agreed that any gentleman who might find his spirits dashed by the dangers and difficulties of the way should be at liberty at any time to turn his back upon the mountains, and his face toward safety and the settlements.  The Governor frowned, bit his lips, but finally burst into unwilling laughter.

“You are a very young gentleman, Mr. Marmaduke Haward!” he cried.  “Were you a little younger, I know what ointment I should prescribe for your hurt.  Go your ways with your broken ankle; but if, when I come again to the cabin in the valley, I find that your own injury has not contented you, look to it that I do not make you build a bridge across the bay itself!  Gentlemen, Mr. Haward is bent upon intrusting his cure to other and softer hands than Dr. Robinson’s, and the expedition must go forward without him.  We sorrow to lose him from our number, but we know better than to reason with ahem! a twisted ankle. En avant, gentlemen!  Mr. Haward, pray have a care of yourself.  I would advise that the ankle be well bandaged, and that you stir not from the chimney corner”

“I thank your Excellency for your advice,” said Mr. Haward imperturbably, “and will consider of taking it.  I wish your Excellency and these merry gentlemen a most complete victory over the mountains, from which conquest I will no longer detain you.”

He bowed as he spoke, and began to move, slowly and haltingly, across the width of the rocky way to where his negro stood with the two horses.

“Mr. Haward!” called the Governor.

The recreant turned his head.  “Your Excellency?”

“It was the right foot, was it not?” queried his sometime leader.  “Ah, I thought so!  Then it were best not to limp with the left.”

Homeric laughter shook the air; but while Mr. Haward laughed not, neither did he frown or blush.  “I will remember, sir,” he said simply, and at once began to limp with the proper foot.  When he reached the bank he turned, and, standing with his arm around his horse’s neck, watched the company which he had so summarily deserted, as it put itself into motion and went slowly past him up its dusky road.  The laughter and bantering farewells moved him not; he could at will draw a line around himself across which few things could step.  Not far away the bed of the stream turned, and a hillside, dark with hemlock, closed the view.  He watched the train pass him, reach this bend, and disappear.  The axemen and the four Meherrins, the Governor and the gentlemen of the Horseshoe, the rangers, the negroes, all were gone at last.  With that passing, and with the ceasing of the laughter and the trampling, came the twilight.  A whippoorwill began to call, and the wind sighed in the trees.  Juba, the negro, moved closer to his master; then upon an impulse stooped, and lifting above his head a great rock, threw it with might into one of the shallow pools.  The crashing sound broke the spell of the loneliness and quiet that had fallen upon the place.  The white man drew his breath, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his horse’s head down the way up which he had so lately come.

The cabin in the valley was not three miles away.  Down this ravine to a level place of pines, through the pines to a strip of sassafras and a poisoned field, past these into a dark, rich wood of mighty trees linked together with the ripening grape, then three low hills, then the valley and the cabin and a pair of starry eyes.  It was full moon.  Once out from under the stifling walls of the ravine, and the silver would tremble through the leaves, and show the path beneath.  The trees, too, that they had blazed, with white wood pointing to white wood, the backward way should be easy.

The earth, rising sheer in darkness on either hand, shut in the bed of the stream.  In the warm, scented dusk the locusts shrilled in the trees, and far up the gorge the whippoorwill called and called.  The air was filled with the gold of fireflies, a maze of spangles, now darkening, now brightening, restless and bewildering.  The small, round pools caught the light from the yet faintly colored sky, and gleamed among the rocks; a star shone out, and a hot wind, heavy with the smell of the forest, moved the hemlock boughs and rustled in the laurels.

The white man and the negro, each leading his horse, picked their way with caution among the pitfalls of the rocky and uneven road.  With the passing of the Governor and his train a sudden cure had been wrought, for now Haward’s step was as firm and light as it had been before his fall.  The negro looked at him once or twice with a puzzled face, but made no comment and received no enlightenment.  Indeed, so difficult was their way that they were left but scant leisure for speech.  Moment by moment the darkness deepened, and once Haward’s horse came to its knees, crashing down among the rocks and awakening every echo.

The way, if hard, was short.  The hills fell farther apart, the banks became low and broad, and fair in front, between two slender pines, shone out the great round moon.  Leaving the bed of the stream, the two men entered a pine wood, dim and fragrant and easy to thread.  The moon rose higher, and the light fell in wide shafts between trees that stood well apart, with no vines to grapple one to another or undergrowth to press about their knees.

There needed no watchfulness:  the ground was smooth, the light was fair; no motion save the pale flicker of the fireflies, no sound save the sigh of the night wind in the boughs that were so high overhead.  Master and man, riding slowly and steadily onward through a wood that seemed interminably the same, came at last to think of other things than the road which they were traveling.  Their hands lost grasp upon the reins, and their eyes, ceasing to glance now here, now there, gazed steadfastly down the gray and dreamlike vista before them, and saw no longer hole and branch, moonlight and the white scars that the axe had made for guidance.  The vision of the slave was of supper at the quarters, of the scraping of the fiddle in the red firelight, of the dancing and the singing.  The white man saw, at first, only a girl’s face, shy and innocent, the face of the woodland maid who had fired his fancy, who was drawing him through the wilderness back to the cabin in the valley.  But after a while, in the gray stillness, he lost the face, and suddenly thought, instead, of the stone that was to cover his father’s grave.  The ship that was to bring the great, dark, carven slab should be in by now; the day after his return to Williamsburgh the stone must be put in place, covering in the green sod and that which lay below. Here, lieth in the hope of a joyful resurrection

His mind left the grave in the churchyard at Williamsburgh, and visited the great plantation of which he was now sole master.  There was the house, foursquare, high-roofed, many-windowed, built of dark red brick that glowed behind the veil of the walnuts and the oaks.  There, too, were the quarters, the home quarter, that at the creek, that on the ridge.  Fifty white servants, three hundred slaves, and he was the master.  The honeysuckles in the garden that had been his father’s pride, the shining expanse of the river, the ship his ship, the Golden Rose that was to take him home to England, he forgot the night and the forest, and saw these things quite plainly.  Then he fell to thinking of London and the sweets that he meant to taste, the heady wine of youth and life that he meant to drain to the lees.  He was young; he could spare the years.  One day he would come back to Virginia, to the dim old garden and quiet house.  His factor would give account, and he would settle down in the red brick house, with the tobacco to the north and east, the corn to the west, and to the south the mighty river, the river silvered by the moon, the river that lay just beyond him, gleaming through the trees

Startled by the sudden tightening of the reins, or by the tearing of some frightened thing through the canes that beset the low, miry bank, the horse sprang aside; then stood trembling with pricked ears.  The white man stared at the stream; turned in his saddle and stared at the tree trunks, the patches of moonlight, and the impenetrable shadow that closed each vista.  “The blazed trees!” he exclaimed at last.  “How long since we saw one?”

The slave shook his head.  “Juba forgot to look.  He was away by a river that he knew.”

“We have passed from out the pines,” said Haward.  “These are oaks.  But what is that water, and how far we are out of our reckoning the Lord only knows!”

As he spoke he pushed his horse through the tall reeds to the bank of the stream.  Here in the open, away from the shadow of the trees, the full moon had changed the night-time into a wonderful, silver day.  Narrow above and belows the stream widened before him into a fairy basin, rimmed with reeds, unruffled, crystal-clear, stiller than a dream.  The trees that grew upon the farther side were faint gray clouds in the moonlight, and the gold of the fireflies was very pale.  From over the water, out of the heart of the moonlit wood, came the song of a mockingbird, a tumultuous ecstasy, possessing the air and making elfin the night.

Haward backed his horse from the reeds to the oak beneath which waited the negro. “’Tis plain that we have lost our way, Juba,” he said, with a laugh.  “If you were an Indian, we should turn and straightway retrace our steps to the blazed trees.  Being what you are, you are more valuable in the tobacco fields than in the forest.  Perhaps this is the stream which flows by the cabin in the valley.  We’ll follow it down, and so arrive, at least, at a conclusion.”

They dismounted, and, leading their horses, followed the stream for some distance, to arrive at the conclusion that it was not the one beside which they had dined that day.  When they were certain of this, they turned and made their way back to the line of reeds which they had broken to mark their starting-point.  By now the moon was high, and the mockingbird in the wood across the water was singing madly.  Turning from the still, moonlit sheet, the silent reeds, the clear mimicker in the slumbrous wood, the two wayfarers plunged into the darkness beneath the spreading branches of the oak-trees.  They could not have ridden far from the pines; in a very little while they might reach and recognize the path which they should tread.

An hour later, the great trees, oak and chestnut, beech and poplar, suddenly gave way to saplings, many, close-set, and overrun with grapevines.  So dense was the growth, so unyielding the curtain of vines, that men and horses were brought to a halt as before a fortress wall.  Again they turned, and, skirting that stubborn network, came upon a swamp, where leafless trees, white as leprosy, stood up like ghosts from the water that gleamed between the lily-pads.  Leaving the swamp they climbed a hill, and at the summit found only the moon and the stars and a long plateau of sighing grass.  Behind them were the great mountains; before them, lesser heights, wooded hills, narrow valleys, each like its fellow, each indistinct and shadowy, with no sign of human tenant.

Haward gazed at the climbing moon and at the wide and universal dimness of the world beneath; then turned to the negro, and pointed to a few low trees growing at the eastern end of the plateau.

“Fasten the horses there, Juba,” he said.  “We will wait upon this hilltop until morning.  When the light comes, we may be able to see the clearing or the smoke from the cabin.”

When the horses had been tethered, master and man lay down upon the grass.  It was so still upon the hilltop, and the heavens pressed so closely, that the slave grew restless and strove to make talk.  Failing in this, he began to croon a savage, mournful air, and presently, forgetting himself, to sing outright.

“Be quiet!” ordered his master.  “There may be Indians abroad.”

The song came to an end as abruptly as it lad begun, and the singer, having nothing better to do, went fast asleep.  His companion, more wakeful, lay with his hands behind his head and his eyes upon the splendor of the firmament.  Lying so, he could not see the valleys nor the looming mountains.  There were only the dome of the sky, the grass, and himself.  He stared at the moon, and made pictures of her shadowy places; then fell to thinking of the morrow, and of the possibility that after all he might never find again the cabin in the valley.  While he laughed at this supposition, yet he played with it.  He was in a mood to think the loss of the trail of the expedition no great matter.  The woods were full of game, the waters of fish; he and Juba had only to keep their faces to the eastward, and a fortnight at most would bring them to the settlements.  But the valleys folded among the hills were many; what if the one he sought should still elude him?  What if the cabin, the sugar-tree, the crystal stream, had sunk from sight, like the city in one of Monsieur Gralland’s fantastic tales?  Perhaps they had done so, the spot had all the air of a bit of fairyland, and the woodland maid was gone to walk with the elves.  Well, perchance for her it would be better so.  And yet it would be pleasant if she should climb the hillside now and sit beside him, with her shy dark eyes and floating hair.  Her hair was long and fine, and the wind would lift it; her face was fair, and another than the wind should kiss it.  The night would not then be so slow in going.

He turned upon his side, and looked along the grassy summit to the woods upon the opposite slope and to the distant mountains.  Dull silver, immutable, perpetual, they reared themselves to meet the moonbeams.  Between him and those stern and changeless fronts, pallid as with snows, stretched the gray woods.  The moon shone very brightly, and there was no wind.  So unearthly was the quiet of the night, so solemn the light, so high and still and calm the universe around him, that awe fell upon his soul.  It was well to lie upon the hilltop and guess at the riddle of the world; now dimly to see the meaning, now to lose it quite, to wonder, to think of death.  The easy consciousness that for him death was scores of years away, that he should not meet the spectre until the wine was all drunken, the garlands withered, and he, the guest, ready to depart, made these speculations not at all unpleasing.  He looked at his hand, blanched by the moonlight, lying beside him upon the grass, and thought how like a dead hand it seemed, and what if he could not move it, nor his body, nor could ever rise from the grass, but must lie there upon the lonely hilltop in the untrodden wilderness, until that which had ridden and hunted and passed so buoyantly through life should become but a few dry bones, a handful of dust.  He was of his time, and its laxness of principle and conduct; if he held within himself the potential scholar, statesman, and philosopher, there were also the skeptic, the egotist, and the libertine.  He followed the fashion and disbelieved much, but he knew that if he died to-night his soul would not stay with his body upon the hilltop.  He wondered, somewhat grimly, what it would do when so much that had clothed it round pride of life, love of pleasure, desire, ambition should be plucked away.  Poor soul!  Surely it would feel itself something shrunken, stripped of warmth, shiveringly bare to all the winds of heaven.  The radiance of the moon usurped the sky, but behind that veil of light the invisible and multitudinous stars were shining.  Beyond those stars were other stars, beyond those yet others; on and on went the stars, wise men said.  Beyond them all, what then?  And where was the place of the soul?  What would it do?  What heaven or hell would it find or make for itself?  Guesswork all!

The silver pomp of the night began to be oppressive to him.  There was beauty, but it was a beauty cold and distant, infinitely withdrawn from man and his concerns.  Woods and mountains held aloof, communing with the stars.  They were kindred and of one house; it was man who was alien, a stranger and alone.  The hilltop cared not that he lay thereon; the grass would grow as greenly when he was in his grave; all his tragedies since time began he might reenact there below, and the mountains would not bend to look.

He flung his arm across his eyes to shut out the moonlight, and tried to sleep.  Finding the attempt a vain one, and that the night pressed more and more heavily upon him, he sat up with the intention of shaking the negro awake, and so providing himself with other company than his own thoughts.

His eyes had been upon the mountains, but now, with the sudden movement, he faced the eastern horizon and a long cleft between the hills.  Far down this opening something was on fire, burning fiercely and redly.  Some one must have put torch to the forest; and yet it did not burn as trees burn.  It was like a bonfire ... it was a bonfire in a clearing!  There were not woods about it, but a field and the glint of water

The negro, awakened by foot and voice, sprang up, and stood bewildered beside his master.  “It is the valley that we have been seeking, Juba,” said the latter, speaking rapidly and low.  “That burning pile is the cabin, and ’t is like that there are Indians between us and it!  Leave the horses; we shall go faster without them.  Look to the priming of your gun, and make no noise.  Now!”

Rapidly descending the hill, they threw themselves into the woods at its base.  Here they could not see the fire, but now and then, as they ran, they caught the glow, far down the lines of trees.  Though they went swiftly they went warily as well, keeping an eye and ear open and muskets ready.  But there was no sound other than their own quick footfalls upon the floor of rotting leaves, or the eager brushing of their bodies through occasional undergrowth; no sight but the serried trees and the checkered light and shade upon the ground.

They came to the shallow stream that flashed through the valley, and crossing it found themselves on cleared ground, with only a long strip of corn between them and what had been a home for English folk.  It was that no longer:  for lack of fuel the flames were dying down; there was only a charred and smoking pile, out of which leaped here and there a red tongue.

Haward had expected to hear a noise of savage triumph, and to see dark figures moving about their handiwork.  There was no noise, and the moonlight showed no living being.  The night was changelessly still and bright; the tragedy had been played, and the mountains and the hills and the running water had not looked.

It took but a few minutes to break through the rustling corn and reach the smouldering logs.  Once before them, there seemed naught to do but to stand and stare at the ruin, until a tongue of flame caught upon a piece of uncharred wood, and showed them the body of the pioneer lying at a little distance from the stone that had formed his doorstep.  At a sign from Haward the negro went and turned it over, then, let it sink again into the seared grass.  “Two arrows, Marse Duke,” he said, coming back to the other’s side.  “An’ they’ve taken his scalp.”

Three times Haward made the round of the yet burning heap.  Was it only ruined and fallen walls, or was it a funeral pyre as well?  To know, he must wait for the day and until the fire had burned itself out.  If the former were the case, if the dead man alone kept the valley, then now, through the forest and the moonlight, captives were being haled to some Indian village, and to a fate more terrible than that of the man who lay there upon the grass with an arrow through his heart.

If the girl were still alive, yet was she dead to him.  He was no Quixote to tilt with windmills.  Had a way to rescue her lain fair before him, he would have risked his life without a thought.  But the woods were deep and pathless, and only an Indian could find and keep a trail by night.  To challenge the wilderness; to strike blindly at the forest, now here, now there; to dare all, and know that it was hopeless daring, a madman might do this for love.  But it was only Haward’s fancy that had been touched, and if he lacked not courage, neither did he lack a certain cool good sense which divided for him the possible from that which was impossible, and therefore not to be undertaken.

Turning from the ruin, he walked across the trampled sward to the sugar-tree in whose shade, in the golden afternoon, he had sung to his companions and to a simple girl.  Idle and happy and far from harm had the valley seemed.

         “Here shall he see
          No enemy
    But winter and rough weather.”

Suddenly he found that he was trembling, and that a sensation of faintness and of dull and sick revolt against all things under the stars was upon him.  Sitting down in the shadow of the tree, he rested his face in his hands and shut his eyes, preferring the darkness within to that outer night which hid not and cared not, which was so coldly at peace.  He was young, and though stories of such dismal things as that before him were part of the stock in trade of every ancient, garrulous man or woman of his acquaintance, they had been for him but tales; not horrible truths to stare him in the face.  He had seen his father die; but he had died, in his bed, and like one who went to sleep.

The negro had followed him, and now stood with his eyes upon the dying flames, muttering to himself some heathenish charm.  When it was ended, he looked about him uneasily for a time; then bent and plucked his master by the sleeve.  “We cyarn’ do nothin’ here, Marse Duke,” he whispered.  “An’ the wolves may get the horses.”

With a laugh and a groan, the young man rose to his feet.  “That is true, Juba,” he said.  “It’s all over here, we were too late.  And it’s not a pleasant place to lie awake in, waiting for the morning.  We’ll go back to the hilltop.”

Leaving the tree, they struck across the grass and entered the strip of corn.  Something low and dark that had lain upon the ground started up before them, and ran down the narrow way between the stalks.  Haward made after it and caught it.

“Child!” he cried.  “Where are the others?”

The child had struggled for a moment, desperately if weakly, but at the sound of his voice she lay still in his grasp, with her eyes upon his face.  In the moonlight each could see the other quite plainly.  Raising her in his arms, Haward bore her to the brink of the stream, laved her face and chafed the small, cold hands.

“Now tell me, Audrey,” he said at last.  “Audrey is your name, isn’t it?  Cry, if you like, child, but try to tell me.”

Audrey did not cry.  She was very, very tired, and she wanted to go to sleep.  “The Indians came,” she told him in a whisper, with her head upon his breast.  “We all waked up, and father fired at them through the hole in the door.  Then they broke the door down, and he went outside, and they killed him.  Mother put me under the bed, and told me to stay there, and to make no noise.  Then the Indians came in at the door, and killed her and Molly and Robin.  I don’t remember anything after that, maybe I went to sleep.  When I was awake again the Indians were gone, but there was fire and smoke everywhere.  I was afraid of the fire, and so I crept from under the bed, and kissed mother and Molly and Robin, and left them lying in the cabin, and came away.”

She sighed with weariness, and the hand with which she put back her dark hair that had fallen over her face was almost too heavy to lift.  “I sat beside father and watched the fire,” she said.  “And then I heard you and the black man coming over the stones in the stream.  I thought that you were Indians, and I went and hid in the corn.”

Her voice failed, and her eyelids drooped.  In some anxiety Haward watched her breathing and felt for the pulse in the slight brown wrist; then, satisfied, he lifted the light burden, and, nodding to the negro to go before, recommenced his progress to the hill which he had left an hour agone.

It was not far away.  He could see the bare summit above the treetops, and in a little while they were upon its slope.  A minute more and they came to the clump of trees, and found the horses in safety, Haward paused to take from the roll strapped behind his saddle a riding cloak; then, leaving the negro with the horses, climbed to the grassy level.  Here he spread the cloak upon the ground, and laid the sleeping child upon it, which done, he stood and looked at his new-found charge for a moment; then turning, began to pace up and down upon the hilltop.

It was necessary to decide upon a course of action.  They had the horses, the two muskets, powder and shot.  The earth was dry and warm, and the skies were cloudless.  Was it best to push on to Germanna, or was it best to wait down there in the valley for the return of the Governor and his party?  They would come that way, that was certain, and would look to find him there.  If they found only the ruined cabin, they might think him dead or taken by the Indians, and an attempt to seek him, as dangerous, perhaps, as fruitless, might be made.  He decided that he would wait.  To-morrow he would take Juba and the horses and the child and go down into the valley; not back to the sugar-tree and that yet smouldering pyre, but to the woods on this side of the stream.

This plan thought out, he went; and took his seat beside the child.  She was moaning in her sleep, and he bent over and soothed her.  When she was quiet he still kept her hand in his, as he sat there waiting for the dawn.  He gave the child small thought.  Together he and Juba must care for her until they could rejoin the expedition:  then the Governor, who was so fond of children, might take her in hand, and give her for nurse old Dominick, who was as gentle as a woman.  Once at Germanna perhaps some scolding Hausfrau would take her, for the sake of the scrubbing and lifting to be gotten out of those small hands and that slender frame.  If not, she must on to Williamsburgh and the keeping of the vestry there.  The next Orphan Court would bind her to some master or mistress who might (or might not) be kind to her, and so there would be an end to the matter.

The day was breaking.  Moon and stars were gone, and the east was dull pink, like faded roses.  A ribbon of silver mist, marking the course of the stream below, drew itself like a serpent through the woods that were changing from gray to green.  The dank smell of early morning rose from the dew-drenched earth, and in the countless trees of the forest the birds began to sing.

A word or phrase which is as common and familiar as our hand may, in some one minute of time, take on a significance and present a face so keen and strange that it is as if we had never met it before.  An Orphan Court!  Again he said the words to himself, and then aloud.  No doubt the law did its best for the fatherless and motherless, for such waifs and strays as that which lay beside him.  When it bound out children, it was most emphatic that they should be fed and clothed and taught; not starved or beaten unduly, or let to grow up ignorant as negroes.  Sometimes the law was obeyed, sometimes not.

The roses in the east bloomed again, and the pink of their petals melted into the clear blue of the upper skies.  Because their beauty compelled him Haward looked at the heavens.  The Court of the Orphan!... When my father and my mother forsake, me, the Lord taketh me up.  Haward acknowledged with surprise that portions of the Psalter did somehow stick in the memory.

The face of the child was dark and thin, but the eyes were large and there was promise in the mouth.  It was a pity

He looked at her again, and suddenly resolved that he, Marmaduke Haward, would provide for her future.  When they met once more, he should tell the Governor and his brother adventurers as much; and if they chose to laugh, why, let them do so!  He would take the child to Williamsburgh with him, and get some woman to tend her until he could find kind and decent folk with whom to bestow her.  There were the new minister of Fair View parish and his wife, they might do.  He would give them two thousand pounds of sweet-scented a year for the child’s maintenance.  Oh, she should be well cared for!  He would if he thought of it send her gifts from London; and when she was grown, and asked in marriage, he would give her for dowry a hundred acres of land.

As the strengthening rays of the sun, shining alike upon the just and the unjust, warmed his body, so his own benevolence warmed his heart.  He knew that he was doing a generous thing, and his soul felt in tune with the beamy light, the caroling of the birds, the freshness and fragrance of the morning.  When at last the child awoke, and, the recollection of the night coming full upon her, clung to him, weeping and trembling, he put his arm around her and comforted her with all the pet names his memory could conjure up.