lips. Men were between us now,--the
Governor, Francis West, Master Pory, Hamor, Wynne,--and a babel of
excited voices arose. The diversion I had aimed to make had been made
with a vengeance. West had me by the arm. "What a murrain is all this
coil about, Ralph Percy? If you hurt hair of his head, you are lost!"

The favorite broke from the Governor's detaining hand and conciliatory
speech.

"You'll fight, sir?" he cried hoarsely.

"You know that I need not now, my lord," I answered.

He stamped upon the ground with rage and shame; not true shame for that
foul thrust, but shame for the sword upon the grass, for that which
could be read in men's eyes, strive to hide it as they might, for the
open scorn upon one face. Then, during the minute or more in which we
faced each other in silence, he exerted to some effect that will
of which he had boasted. The scarlet faded from his face, his frame
steadied, and he forced a smile. Also he called to his aid a certain
soldierly, honest-seeming frankness of speech and manner which he could
assume at will.

"Your Virginian sunshine dazzleth the eyes, sir," he said. "Of a verity
it made me think you on guard. Forgive me my mistake."

I bowed. "Your lordship will find me at your service. I lodge at the
minister's house, where your lordship's messenger will find me. I am
going there now with my wife, who hath ridden a score of miles this
morning and is weary. We give you good-day, my lord."

I bowed to him again and to the Governor, then gave my hand to Mistress
Percy. The crowd opening before us, we passed through it, and crossed
the parade by the west bulwark. At the further end was a bit of rising
ground. This we mounted; then, before descending the other side into the
lane leading to the minister's house, we turned as by one impulse
and looked back. Life is like one of those endless Italian corridors,
painted, picture after picture, by a master hand; and man is the
traveler through it, taking his eyes from one scene but to rest them
upon another. Some remain a blur in his mind; some he remembers not; for
some he has but to close his eyes and he sees them again, line for line,
tint for tint, the whole spirit of the piece. I close my eyes, and I
see the sunshine hot and bright, the blue of the skies, the sheen of the
river. The sails are white again upon boats long lost; the Santa Teresa,
sunk in a fight with an Algerine rover two years afterward, rides
at anchor there foreve