"You'll get back to town and get to bed!" stormed the other. "'Fire in the air,' quotha! _I_ could have brought down a kite from the blue! You might, at least, have broken a wing for him!" "Oh, I might, I might," said the other wearily. "But I didn't. I never liked this work of breaking wings. Now, Doctor, that is a bandage fit for a king! Call the coach, Fair. This much of the business is over." The chaise carrying Lewis Rand and his companion traversed with rapidity the miles to Richmond. The road was fair, and the day bright and cool. The meeting by the river had occupied hardly an hour; the world of the country was yet at its morning stirring, and filled with cheerful sound. Above the fields the sky showed steel blue; the creepers upon the rail-fencing still displayed, here and there, five crimson fingers, and wayside cedars patched with shadow the pale ribbon of the road. Rand kept silence, and his late second, at first inclined to talkativeness, soon fell under the infection and stared blankly at the fence corners. A notorious duellist, he may have been busy with dramas of the past. Rand's thought was for the future. They came into Main Street and drove to Rand's office. "We'll dismiss the chaise here," said the latter. "I have a few directions to give, and then I'm for the post-office and the Eagle." "I will precede you there," answered the other. "Allow me, sir, before we part, to express the gratification I have felt in serving, to the best of my poor abilities, a gentleman of whom the party expects so much--" "Rather allow me, sir, to express my gratitude--" and so on through the stilted compliment of the day. Assurances from both sides over at last, and the chaise discharged, the one walked briskly down the unpaved street toward the Eagle, and the other entered quietly the bare and business-like room from whose window, last February, he had fed the snowbirds. The room was not vacant. Before the table, with his arms upon it, and his head upon his arms, sat Mocket. At the sound of the closing door he started up, stared at Rand, then fell back with a gasp of relief, and the water in his eyes. "Lewis? Thank the Lord!" "It's Lewis," said the other. "My good old fellow, did you think only to see my ghost? Well, the comedy is over." "Lord! it's been a long hour!" breathed his associate. "What did you do to him, Lewis?" "He has a ball through his shoulder. It is not serious. I don't want to talk about it, Tom." Rand spoke abruptly, and, walking to his desk, sat down, drew a piece of paper toward him, and dipped a quill into the ink-well. "Is Young Isham there? He is to take this note to the house, to Mrs. Rand." Mocket went to find Young Isham. Rand, alone in the room, wrote in his strong, plain hand:---- JACQUELINE:--We met an hour ago. He is slightly wounded--through the shoulder. I tell you truth, it is in no wise dangerous. I am unhurt.