When we reach the hotel, we find Aunt Markham on the piazza. The carriages and horses have arrived, she tells us, and have made the trip very well. “John” (the coachman) “assures me that the road over Hickory-Nut Gap is excellent,” she says. “We will certainly return that way.” Rupert makes the same report. “I saw no bad road at all,” he says. “We crossed the Gap and came on to Asheville to-day easily.” Eric and Charley go to look after John and the horses, while Mr. Lanier again expresses an intention of joining our party. “The only way to travel through such a country as this is in the manner you propose,” he says. “I can easily obtain a horse from my uncle if I may be allowed to join you.” “We shall be happy to have you do so,” says Aunt Markham graciously. She glances at Sylvia, and I know as well what she is thinking as if her thoughts were expressed in words. As I turn and go up-stairs, I think again, “Poor Charley!” Two hours later the moon is rising, when we leave the hotel and take our way to an elevated point in the western part of the town known as “Battery Porter.” We are advised against visiting this at night, and warned of fences to be climbed and terrible dogs to be braved, but such trifles do not weigh with tourists in search of a view. Aunt Markham declines to accompany us, but Rupert volunteers to do so. To raise our spirits he draws from his pocket, and opens, an enormous knife. “I could cut a dog’s throat with that,” he says. I am amused at the order into which the procession falls. Miss Dupont slips her hand with an air of proprietorship into Charley’s arm. “You’ll take care of me, I’m sure,” she says, in a tone of confident trust. “I’ll defy all the dogs in Asheville, if need be,” he answers—but I see him glance at Sylvia. This young lady has in some intangible manner made it understood that she prefers Mr. Lanier’s attendance, therefore I find Mr. Dupont at my side. He is courteous and attentive, but a little melancholy. No doubt it is trying to be coolly laid on the shelf when a new admirer appears on the scene. An Anglo-Saxon man under such circumstances sulks, or else (like Charley) diverts his mind by flirting with some one else. This young creole is merely pensive, and we stroll along, talking of music—of Schumann, and Wagner, and Thomas’s orchestra—while Sylvia’s gay laugh floats back to us, and Eric and Rupert discuss the horses and the roads behind. Before attempting the dangers of the narrow road which leads to Battery Porter, we decide to wait until the moon rises sufficiently to show us the enemy’s movements. We pause, therefore, in a street bounded on one side by a low stone wall, beyond which is a sloping field, and on the other by a row of houses set on the side of a hill, which rises in the rear to the elevation we desire to ascend. Here, on the stone wall, we sit down in a row and watch the moon rise.