They entered the fine old house, and sat down in the hall. Cook smiled at the easy fulfillment of his task. Directly in front of the door, set in a deep panel, was the portrait of the first President. On the right in a smaller panel hung the sword which Frederick the Great had given him. On the other side, the pistols from the hands of Lafayette. A tiny, gold plate, delicately engraved, marked each treasure. Virginia showed him these souvenirs of her country's history. She spoke of them with breathless awe. She laughed with girlish pride. "Aren't they just grand?" Cook nodded. He felt guilty of treachery. A betrayal of Southern hospitality in this sweet girl's presence! He ground his teeth at the thought of his weakness the next moment. Colonel Washington appeared through the door from the dining room. He was followed by his ancient butler, bearing a tray filled with drinks. The Colonel served them with his own hand. The negro grinned his welcome to the guests. At the sight of a slave, Cook was himself again. His jaw closed and his eye flashed. He was once more the disciple of the Man of the Blood-Feud. Washington handed a tall glass to Virginia. "Your lemonade, young lady. I know your taste and approve." He bowed low and gave her the drink. He took two glasses of mint juleps, one in each hand. "Mr. Cook, the favorite drink of these mountains, sir, as pure as its dews, as refreshing as its air--the favorite drink of old Virginia. To your good health, sir!" Cook's head barely moved and he drank in silence. He held his mood of reserve on the drive home. In vain the girl smiled and coaxed his dreary spirits. He refused to respond. They passed the same wonderful views, the same birds were singing, the same waters foaming and laughing over the rocks below. The man heard nothing, saw nothing, save a vision inside his raging soul. He saw men riding through the night to that house. He saw black hands grip iron pikes and knock at the door of its great hall. There was a far-away look in his keen eyes--eyes that could sight a rifle with deadly aim. The slender girl nestled closer in wonder at the veil that had suddenly dropped between them. The fires of youth and passion responded for a moment to this instinctive stir of his mate. Resistance was agony. His arm moved to encircle her waist. He turned in an impulse to kiss her lips and whisper the mad things his heart was saying. He caught himself in time. What had he to do with this eternal call of the human heart to love and be loved? It meant home, it meant tenderness. It meant peace and good will to every living thing. He had come to kill, not to love; to destroy, not build homes. Again he rebelled against his hideous task. And then he remembered John Brown and all for which he stood. His oath crashed through his memory. He resolved to put every thought of tenderness, beauty, and love under his feet and trample them. It was the only way to save himself and this girl.