In a very short time the horses were brought up, and the young men mounted, and gallopped away from the house. They rode on in silence for some time—Lincoln buried in calm thought, and Mark enrapt in a sort of fierce reverie. At length he backed his horse close up to Lincoln’s steed, seized his hand, and exclaimed, “Lauderdale, how can I ever atone for exposing you to such insult?” “Insult? My dear fellow”—(he was just about to say, “Mr. Clement Sutherland _cannot_ insult me;” but, delicate and generous in his consideration for the feelings of Mark, he only said)—“look into my face, and see if you think I am very much troubled.” And, indeed, the pleasant countenance of the youth was well calculated to re-assure his friend. They relapsed into silence as they approached the river. Sutherland was absorbed in mournful and bitter reverie, which Lauderdale forbore to break. They crossed the Pearl in perfect silence; Lincoln glancing from the beautiful semi-transparent river, with its surface softly flushed with rose and saffron clouds, to the gorgeous fields of cotton, with its myriads beyond myriads of golden white flowers. When they left the ferry-boat, and cantered up the gradual ascent of the road, and entered upon the domain of Silentshade, once more Mark put out his hand and seized that of his friend, saying, “Here at last is _my_ home, where I may welcome any friend of mine for any length of time; and I do not so much _invite_ you, as I _entreat_ you, to come and stay with me as long as you can give me your company, if it be only, dear Lincoln, to prove that you forgive me the offence that has been offered to you.” “Pray say no more about it, dear Mark; how are you responsible for an affront offered _yourself_ as well as me? As for staying with you, I will do so with the greatest pleasure as long as I may.” And once more Mark Sutherland fell into silence—into bitter and sorrowful meditation—into deep despondency. Since India’s haughty rejection of his hand, his life had grown very real to him. Before that, he had thought, spoken, and acted, as one under the influence of some inspiring dream. His anticipation and appreciation of the trials that awaited him, differed as much from the real experience of them as the imagining of some glorious martyrdom falls short of the suffering it.