"I meet you with much pleasure," I answered, accepting the proffered hand. "I am John Wayland." The graceful recklessness of the fellow, so conspicuous in each word and action, strongly attracted me. I confess I liked him from his first utterance, although mentally, and perhaps morally as well, no two men of our age could possibly be more unlike. "Wayland?" he mused, with a shrug, as if the sound of the word was unpleasant. "Wayland?--'t is a harsh name to my ears, yet I have heard it mentioned before in England as that of a great family. You are English, then?" I shook my head emphatically; for the old wounds of controversy and battle were then being opened afresh, and the feeling of antagonism ran especially high along the border. "I am of this country," I protested with earnestness, "and we call ourselves Americans." He laughed easily, evidently no little amused at my retort, twisting his small mustache through his slender fingers as he eyed me. "Ah! but that is all one to me; it is ever the blood and not the name that counts, my friend. Now I am French by many a generation, Gascon by birth, and bearing commission in the Guard of the Emperor; yet sooth, 't is the single accursed drop of Irish blood within my veins that brings me across the great seas and maroons me in this howling wilderness. But sit down, Monsieur. There will be both food and wine served presently, and I would speak with you more at ease." As he spoke he flung himself upon a low settee, carelessly motioning me toward another. "On my word," he said, eying me closely as I crossed over to the bench, "but you are a big fellow for your years, and 't is strength, not flabby flesh, or I know not how to judge. You would make a fine figure of a soldier, John Wayland. Napoleon perchance might offer you a marshal's baton, just to see you in the uniform. _Parbleu_! I have seen stranger things happen." "You are now connected with the French army?" I questioned, wondering what could have brought him to this remote spot. "Ay, a Captain of the Guard, yet an exile, banished from the court on account of my sins. _Sacre_! but there are others, Monsieur. I have but one fault, my friend,--grave enough, I admit, yet but one, upon my honor, and even that is largely caused by that drop of Irish blood. I love the ladies over-well, I sometimes fear; and once I dared to look too high for favor." "And have you stopped here long?" "Here--at Hawkins's, mean you? Ten days, as I live; would you believe I could ever have survived so grievous a siege?" and he looked appealingly about upon the bare apartment. "Ten days of Hawkins and of Sam, Monsieur; ay! and of Ol' Burns; of sky, and woods, and river, with never so much as a real white man even to drink liquor with. By Saint Louis! but I shall be happy enough to face you across the board to-night. Yet surely it is not your purpose to halt here long?"