in the days when I tried to do everything that he did, I tried
to learn it too. But I have no music in me."

"It is a solace," answered Mr. Pincornet. "I learned long ago, in the
South."

"I like the harp," announced Rand abruptly.

"It is a becoming instrument to a woman," replied Mr. Pincornet, and in
a somewhat ghostly fashion became vivacious. "Ah, a rounded arm, a white
hand, the rise and fall of a bosom behind the gold wires--and the notes
like water dropping, sweet, sweet! Ah, I, too, like the harp!"

"I have never heard it but twice," said Rand, and turned again to the
balustrade. Below him lay the vast and shadowy landscape. Here and there
showed a light--a pale earth-star shining from grey hill or vale. Rand
looked toward Fontenoy, and he looked wistfully. Behind him the violin
was telling of the springtime; from the garden came the smell of the
syringas; the young man's desire was toward a woman. "Is she playing her
harp to-night? is she playing to Ludwell Cary?"

"Belle saison de ma jeunesse--
Beaux jours du printemps!"

sang the violin. A shot sounded near the house. Adam Gaudylock emerged
from the shadow of the locust trees and crossed the moonlit lawn below
the terrace. "I've shot that night-hawk. He'll maraud no more," he said,
and passed on toward his quarter for the night.

Rand made a motion as if to follow, then checked himself. It was late,
and it had been a day of strife, but his iron frame felt no fatigue and
his mood was one of sombre exaltation. What was the use of going to bed,
of wasting the moonlit hours? He turned to the Frenchman. "Play me," he
commanded, "a conquering air! Play me the Marseillaise!"

Mr. Pincornet started violently. Down came the fiddle from his chin, the
bow in his beruffled hand cut the air with a gesture of angry
repudiation. When he was excited he forgot his English, and he now swore
volubly in French; then, recovering himself, stepped back a pace, and
regarded with high dudgeon his host of the night. "Sir," he cried,
"before I became a dancing master I was a French gentleman! I served the
King. I will teach you to dance, but--Morbleu!--I will not play you the
Marseillaise!"

"I beg your pardon," said Rand. "I forgot that you could not be a
Republican. Well, play me a fine Royalist air."

"Are you so indifferent?" asked the dancing master, not without a faded
scorn. "Royalist or Republican--either air?"

"Indifferent?" repeated Rand. "I don't kn