The hand travelling across the sheet of paper paused, and Rand sat for a moment motionless, looking straight before him; then, with an indrawn breath, he dipped the quill again into the ink and wrote on,---- He fired into the air. Thine, Lewis. He sanded the paper, folded and sealed it, sat for a moment longer, leaning back in his heavy chair, then rose and himself gave the missive to Young Isham, with orders to make no tarrying between the office and the house on Shockoe Hill. Rand's slaves had for him a dog-like affection combined with a dog-like fear of his eye in anger. The boy went at once, and the master returned to the waiting Tom. "The Washington stage is in," he said. "I am going now to the Eagle, and you had best come with me. Then back here, and to work! Where is that man from the Bienville at Norfolk?" "He's waiting at the Indian Queen. I can get him here in ten minutes. This morning's Argus says that the Bienville of New Orleans sails on Saturday--valuable cargo and no passengers." "Ah," said Rand; "the Argus's eyes are heavy." "A half-breed hunter was here this morning. He says that, ten days ago, crossing the Endless Mountains with his face to the east, he met the great hunter they call Golden-Tongue walking very fast, with his face to the west. Learning that he was on his way to Richmond, Golden-Tongue gave him this to be delivered in silence to you." Mocket took from the table a feather and held it out to the other. "A blackbird feather," exclaimed Rand, turning it over in his hand. "That would mean--that would mean--'It is the fall of the leaf. The bird has flown south. Follow all the migratory tribe! follow while the air is yet open to you, or stay behind with the sick and the old and the faint of heart and the fighters against instinct! Winter comes. It is time to make haste.'" He laid the feather down with a smile. "That's Adam. Well, Adam, we will see how swift the Bienville can fly! I may yet be first at New Orleans. Wilkinson and I to welcome Burr and all the motley in his river-boats with a salvo from the city already ours. Ha! that's a silvery dream, Tom, and an eagle's pinion for Adam's blackbird quill!" He laughed and took up his hat. "Let's down the street first, and then you may find the man from the Bienville. There's a long day's work before us, and to-night"--He drew a quick breath. "To-night I have a task that is not slight. Come away! It's striking twelve." The two closed the office and went out into the sunny street. "Where are all the people?" exclaimed Mocket. "It's as still as Sunday." A boy at a shop door, hearing the remark, raised a piping voice. "Everybody's down at the Eagle and the post-office, sir. I heard them say there's big news. Maybe the President's dead!"