and wrists, wore a cocked hat and a Blenheim wig, and became a figure
alike grotesque and terrible. Two thirds of the time his business caused
him to be in the forests that were far away; but when he returned to
civilization, to stare it in the face and brag within himself, "I am lot
and part of what I see!" he dwelt at the crossroads ordinary, drank and
gamed with Paris the schoolmaster and Darden the minister, and dreamed (at
times) of Darden's Audrey.

The miles to Williamsburgh were long and sunny, with the dust thick
beneath the feet. Warm and heavy, the scented spring possessed the land.
It was a day for drowsing in the shade: for them who must needs walk in
the sunshine, languor of thought overtook them, and sparsity of speech.
They walked rapidly, step with step, their two lean and sinewy bodies
casting the same length of shadow; but they kept their eyes upon the long
glare of white dust, and told not their dreams. At a point in the road
where the storekeeper saw only confused marks and a powdering of dust
upon the roadside bushes, the half-breed announced that there had been
that morning a scuffle in a gang of negroes; that a small man had been
thrown heavily to the earth, and a large man had made off across a low
ditch into the woods; that the overseer had parted the combatants, and
that some one's back had bled. No sooner was this piece of clairvoyance
aired than he was vexed that he had shown a hall-mark of the savage, and
hastily explained that life in the woods, such as a trader must live,
would teach any man--an Englishman, now, as well as a Frenchman--how to
read what was written on the earth. Farther on, when they came to a
miniature glen between the semblance of two hills, down which, in mockery
of a torrent, brabbled a slim brown stream, MacLean stood still, gazed for
a minute, then, whistling, caught up with his companion, and spoke at
length upon the subject of the skins awaiting them at Williamsburgh.

The road had other travelers than themselves. At intervals a cloud of dust
would meet or overtake them, and out of the windows of coach or chariot or
lighter chaise faces would glance at them. In the thick dust wheels and
horses' hoofs made no noise, the black coachmen sat still upon the boxes,
the faces were languid with the springtime. A moment and all were gone.
Oftener there passed a horseman. If he were riding the planter's pace, he
went by like a whirlwind, troubling only to curse them out of hi