AT LYNCH'S
Rand, walking hastily through the hail of the Capitol, came out into the
portico. Before him, between the great pillars, the landscape showed in
glittering silver, in the brown of leafless trees and the hard green of
pine and fir. The hill fell steep and white to the houses at its base
and to the trampled street. In the still and crystal air the river made
itself plainly heard. Across, on the Chesterfield side, the woods formed
a long smudge of umber against the blue of the afternoon sky.
There were people here in the open air as there had been in the
corridor, a number of men talking loudly, or excitedly whispering, or in
silence rolling triumph beneath the tongue, or digesting defeat. Rand's
progress, here as there, brought a change. The loud talking fell, the
whisperers turned, the silent found their voices, and there arose a
humming note of recognition and tribute. Rand had carried the Albemarle
Resolutions, and that with a high hand. He moved through the crowd,
acknowledging with a bend of his head this or that man's salute, frankly
smiling upon good friends, and finely unconscious of all enemies, until
at the head of the broad steps he came upon Adam Gaudylock seated with
his gun beside him, smoking reflectively in the face of the Albemarle
Resolutions and the general excitement. At Rand's glance he rose, took
up the gun, and slid the pipe into his beaded pouch. The two descended
the steps together.
"I am going to Lynch's," said Rand. "The stage will soon be in and I
want the news. Well?"
"He's off," answered Gaudylock. "Chaise to Fredericksburg at six this
morning. Pitch dark and no one stirring, and he as chipper, fresh, and
pleased as a squirrel with a nut! Pshaw! a Creek pappoose could read his
trail! He's from New England anyway. I want a Virginian out there!"
They walked on down the white hillside. The hunter, tawny and light of
tread, scarce older to the eye, for all his wanderings, than the man
beside him, glanced aslant with his sea-blue eyes. "When are you coming,
Lewis?"
"Never, I think," said Rand abruptly; then after a moment's silent
walking, "They should better clean these paths of snow. Mocket says a
brig came in yesterday from the Indies;--attacks on Neutral Trade and
great storms at sea. I've a pipe of Madeira on the ocean that I hope
will not go astray. I wish that some time you would send me by a wagon
coming east antlers of elk for the hall at Roselands."
"Why, certainly!" quoth Gaudylock. "And so you are going to settle down
like every other country gentleman,--safe and snug, winter and summer,
fenced in by tobacco and looking after negroes? I'll send you the skin
of a grizzly, too."
"Thank you," replied Rand; then presently, "I dreamed last night--when
at last I got to sleep--of my father. Do you remember how he used to
stride along with his black hair and his open shirt and his big stick in
his hand? I used to think that stick a part of him--just his arm made
long and heavy. I tried once to burn it when he was asleep. Ugh!"
"I dreamed," said Gaudylock imperturbably, "of a Shawnee girl who once
wanted me to stay in her father's lodge. 'It is winter in the forest,'
quoth she, 'and the wolves begin to howl. All your talk of places where
the river runs through flowers and the pale faces build great villages
is the talk of singing birds! Stay by the fire, Golden-tongue!' and I
stayed--in the dream.
"When you see a partridge
Scurrying through the grass,
Fit an arrow to the bow,
For a man will pass!
"Heigho!"
"I am already," retorted Rand, "at the place where the river runs
through flowers and the pale faces have built villages. Who will say
that I did not cross the forest?--I was years in crossing it! Here is
Lynch's."
The coffee house on Main Street was the resort of lawyers, politicians,
and strangers in town, and towards dusk, when the stage and post-rider
were in, a crowded and noisy place. It was yet early when Rand and
Gaudylock entered, and neither the mail-bag, nor many habitués of the
place had arrived. The room was quiet and not over brightly lit by the
declining sun and the flare of a great, crackling fire. There were a
number of tables and a few shadowy figures sipping chocolate, wine, or
punch. Rand led the way to a corner table, and, sitting down with his
back to the room, beckoned a negro and ordered wine. "I am tired, voice
and mind," he said to Gaudylock, "and I know you well enough to neglect
you. Let us sit still till the papers come."
He drank his wine and, with his elbow on the table, rested his forehead
upon his hand and closed his eyes. Adam emptied his glass, then, leaning
back in his corner, surveyed the room. Two men came and seated
themselves at a neighbouring table. They were talking in lowered voices,
but Gaudylock's ears were exceedingly keen. "A great speech!" said one.
"As great as Mr. Henry ever made. Do you remember old Gideon Rand?"
The other shrugged. "Yes; and I remember old Stephen Rand, Gideon's
father--a pirate of a man, sullen, cruel, and revengeful! A black
stock!"
"The Waynes were not angels either--save by comparison," quoth the
first. "All the same it was a great speech."
"I grant you that," said the other. "Black stock or not, we'll see him
Governor of Virginia. Curious, isn't it?"
They became aware of their neighbours, glanced uneasily at each other,
raised their eyebrows, and changed to a distant table. Rand made no sign
of having heard. He put out his hand to the Burgundy, filled his glass,
and drank it slowly, then closed his eyes again. A figure, half buried
in the settle by the fire, folded a month-old journal and, rising,
displayed in the light from the hickory logs the faded silk stockings,
the velvet short-clothes, brocaded coat, and curled wig of M. Achille
Pincornet, who taught dancing each winter in Richmond, as in summer he
taught it in Albemarle. Mr. Pincornet, snuff-box and handkerchief in
hand, looked around him, saw the two at the corner table, and crossed to
them. "Mr. Rand, I make you my compliments. I was in the gallery. Ah,
eloquence, eloquence!--substance persuasively put! Minerva with the air
of Venus! I, too, was eloquent in my day! Pray honour me!"
Rand touched the extended snuff-box with his fingers, muttered an absent
word or two, and again sank into revery. Mr. Pincornet, with an affable,
"Ah, hunter!" to Gaudylock, passed on to greet an entering compatriot,
the good Abbé Dubois.
Rand sat still, his head propped upon one hand, the fingers of the other
moving upon the board before him, half aimlessly, half deliberately, as
though he wrote in a dream. Opposite him rested Adam, placid as an
eastern god. The room began to fill and the murmur of voices to deepen.
"The Red Deer is late," affirmed some one. "Damned heavy roads!"
"Then they've sent on a rider!" cried another. "Here's Lynch's man with
the bag!"
It being the custom to address letters, papers, and pamphlets to
gentlemen at "Lynch's Coffee House," there was now a general movement of
interest and expectation. A negro carrying a pair of saddle-bags
advanced, obsequious and smiling, to a high desk at one side of the room
and placed thereon the news from the outer world The genial Mr Lynch,
proprietor of the establishment, took his place behind the desk with due
solemnity, and a score of lawyers, merchants, and planters left tobacco,
wine, julep, and toddy to press around his temporary throne. Every day
at this hour Lynch mounted this height, and he dearly loved the
transient importance. Now he solemnly unfastened the bags, drew out a
great handful of matter, looked it over, amid laughing clamour, with
pursed lips and one raised, deprecating hand, then in a cheerful,
wheezing voice began to call out names,--"Major Du Val--Major Baker--Mr.
Allan--Mr. Munford--Mr. Chavallie--Colonel Harvie--Major Gibbon--Dr.
Foushee--Mr. Warrington--Major Willis--Mr. Wickham--Mr. Rand--"
There was a moment's check while Lynch craned his neck. "Mr. Rand's not
here, I believe?"
"Lewis Rand,--no!" quoth Mr. Wickham. "What should he do in a mere
coffee house with mere earthly newspapers? He's walking somewhere in a
laurel garden in the cool of the evening."
Rand's voice came out of the depths of the room that was now just light
enough to see the written word. "I am here, Mr. Lynch." He rose and came
forward. "Good-afternoon, gentlemen--good-afternoon, Mr. Wickham!"
"Did you hear?" asked Wickham coolly. "Well, it is a laurel garden, you
know! Mr. Lynch, let's have candles--"
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Lynch. "Colonel Ambler--Mr. Carrington--Mr.
Rutherfoord--Mr. Page--Mr. Cary--Mr. Fairfax Cary--"
"They are coming later," said a voice.
"Thank you, Mr. Mason--Mr. Carter--Mr. Call--Mr. Cabell--the Abbé
Dubois-"
The list went on. Candles were lighted on every table and on the
mantel-shelf, though outside the windows the west was yet red. Two
negroes brought and tossed into the cavernous fireplace a mighty backlog
of hickory. The sound of the fire mingled with the rustle of large thin
sheets of paper, the crisp turning of Auroras, National Intelligencers,
Alexandria Expositors, Gazettes of the United States, excited journals
of an excited time, with softly uttered interjections and running
comment, and with now and then a high, clear statement of fact or
rumour. At home, the hour's burning question was that of English and
Spanish depredation at sea, attack upon neutral ships, confiscation and
impressment of American sailors. In Washington, the resolutions of Gregg
and Nicholson were under consideration, and all things looked toward the
Embargo of a year later. Abroad, the sign in the skies was still
Napoleon--Napoleon--Napoleon! Now, at Lynch's, as the crowd increased
and the first absorbed perusal of script and print gave way to exchange
of news and heated discussion, the room began to ring with voices.
Broken sentences, words, and talismanic phrases danced as thick as motes
in a sunbeam. "Non-Importation.... Gregg.... Too wholesale....
Nicholson.... Silk, window-glass.... Napoleon.... Brass, playing-cards,
books, prints, beer, and ale.... Napoleon.... The Essex of Salem, the
Enoch and Rowena.... Texas--the seizure of Texas. Two millions for the
Floridas.... The Death of Pitt.... Napoleon--Austerlitz.... 'Decius' in
the Enquirer--that's John Randolph of Roanoke.... 'Aurelius'--that
letter of 'Aurelius'--"
Rand, at the corner table, had moved his chair so as to face the room.
Letters and papers were spread before him; he had broken the seal of a
thin blue sheet and drawn a candle close to the fine, neat, and pointed
writing. The letter interested him, and he apparently took no heed of
the rapid disjointed speech around him. But the word "Aurelius" brought
a sudden, darting glance, a movement of the lower lip, and a stiffening
of the shoulders. Gaudylock, who sat and smoked, supremely indifferent
to the display of newspapers, marked the flicker of emotion. "He sees a
snake in the grass," he thought lazily "Who's 'Aurelius'?"
Rand turned the thin blue page, snuffed the candle, and fell again to
his reading. Right and left the talk continued. "Glass, tin.... The
Albemarle Resolutions. Great speech. He's over there.... All this talk
about Aaron Burr.... Austerlitz--twenty thousand Russians.... Westwood
the coiner got clean away on a brig for Martinique. One villain the less
here, one the more in Martinique. Martinique! that's where the Empress
Josephine comes from--"
"My faith!" said Adam. "It's worse than the mockingbirds in June!"
The doors opened and the two Carys entered the coffee room. Rand lifted
his eyes for a moment, then let them fall to the third sheet of his
letter. Mr. Lynch bustled forward. "Ha, Mr. Cary, your letters are
waiting! Mr. Fairfax Cary,--your servant, sir!--Eli, wine for Mr.
Cary--_the_ Madeira. Christopher, more wood to the fire! The night is
falling cold."
"Very cold, Mr. Lynch," said Ludwell Cary. "Colonel Ambler--Mr. Wickham,
we meet again!"--and his brother, "We never have such cold in Albemarle,
Mr. Lynch! Ha, your fire is good, and your wine's good, and your
company's good. There's a table by the fire, Ludwell."
They moved to it, exchanging greetings, as they went, with half the
room, sat down, drank each a glass of wine, and fell to their letters,
careless of the surrounding war of words. The elder's mail was
heavy,--letters from London, from New York, from Philadelphia, one from
his overseer at Greenwood, others from clients, colleagues, and
strangers,--all the varied correspondence of the lawyer, the planter,
and the man of the world. Fairfax Cary's letters were fewer in number,
but one was gilt-edged, curiously folded, and superscribed in a strong
and delicate hand. "Miss Dandridge seals with a dove and an olive
branch?" murmured the elder brother. "Lucky Fair! What's the frown for?"
"Olive branch?" quoth the other. "She should seal with a nettle! Listen
to this: 'Mr. Hunter has been some time with us at Fontenoy. Mr. Carter
spent his Christmas here--he dances extremely well. Mr. Page gives us
now and then the pleasure of his company. He turns the leaves of my
music for me. Mr. Lee and I are reading Sir Charles Grandison together.
I see Mr. Nelson at Saint Anne's.' Saint Anne! Saint Griselda! Her
letters are enough to make a man renounce the world, the flesh, and the
devil, and turn Trappist--"
"I wish the room would turn Trappist," said the other. "I am tired of
talk. I would like to be somewhere in the woods to-night--quiet. We
won't stay long here. There has been contention enough to-day."
The younger leaned forward. "Lewis Rand is over there--three tables
back."
"I know. I saw him when we came in. Read your letters and we will be
gone."
The minutes passed. Outside Lynch's the western red faded, and the
still, winter night came quickly on. Within, fire and candles burned
bright, but to not a few of Mr. Lynch's patrons the flames danced
unsteadily. It was an age of hard drinking; the day had been an exciting
one, and Lynch's wine or punch or apple toddy but the last of many
potations. The assemblage was assuredly not drunken, but neither was it,
at this hour and after the emotional wear and tear of the past hours,
quite sane or less than hectic. Its mood was edged. Now, in the quarter
of an hour before the general start for home and supper, foreign and
federal affairs gave way to first-hand matters and a review of the day
that was closing. It had been a field day. The city of Richmond was
strongly Federal, the General Assembly mainly Republican. At Lynch's
this evening were members, Federalist and Republican, of the two Houses,
with citizens, planters, visitors enough of either principle. When the
general talk turned upon the Albemarle Resolutions and the morning's
proceedings in the House of Delegates, it was as though an invisible
grindstone had put upon the moment a finer edge.
Lewis Rand, sweeping his letters and papers together, had nodded to Adam
and moved from his table to that of a pillar of the Republican party,
with whom he was now in attentive discourse. Apparently he gave no heed
to the voices around him, though he might have heard his own name,
seeing that wherever the talk now turned it came at last upon his speech
of that morning. Presently, "Mr. Rand!" called some one from across the
room.
Rand turned. "Mr. Harrison?"
"Mr. Rand, there's a dispute here. Just what did you mean by--" and
there followed a quotation from the morning's speech.
Rand moistened his lips with wine, turned more fully in his chair, and
answered in a sentence of such pith as to bring applause from those of
his party who heard. In a moment there was another query, then a third;
he was presently committed to a short and vigorous exposition and
defence of the point in question. The entire room became attentive.
Then, as he paused, the strident voice of a noted and irascible man
proclaimed, "That's not democracy and not Jefferson--that doctrine, Mr.
Rand. Veil her as you please in gauze and tinsel, you've got conquest by
the hand. You may not think it, but you're preaching--what's the word
that 'Aurelius' used?--'Buonapartism.'"
A Federalist of light weight who had arrived at quarrelsomeness and an
empty bottle put in a sudden oar. "'Buonapartism' equals Ambition, and
both begin with an R." He looked pointedly at Rand.
"My name begins with an R, sir," said Rand.
"Pshaw! so does mine!" exclaimed the man at the table with him. "Let him
alone, Rand. He doesn't know what he is saying."
Rand turned to the first speaker. "'Buonapartism,'--that's a word that's
as ample as Charity, but I hardly think, sir, that it covers this case.
It's a very vague word. But writers to the Gazette are apt to be more
fluent than accurate."
"I shouldn't call it vague," cried his opponent. "It's a damned good
word, and so I'd tell 'Aurelius,' if I knew who he was."
"It wasn't random firing in that letter," said a voice from another
quarter of the room. "I don't much care to know the gunner, but I'd
mightily like to know who was aimed at. It was a damned definite thing,
that letter. 'Buonapartism--the will to mount--sacrifice of
obligations--Genius prostituted to Ambition--sin against light--a man's
betrayal of his highest self and his own belief--the mind's incurable
blindness--I, I am above all law--to take rich gifts and hold the gods
in contempt--Dædalus wings'"--The speaker paused to fill his glass.
"Yes, I should powerfully like to know at whom 'Aurelius' was aiming."
"At no one, I think," said Rand coolly. "He made a scarecrow of his own,
and then was frightened by it. His chain-shot raked a man of straw,--and
so would I tell 'Aurelius,' if I knew who he was."
As he spoke, he moved to face the fire. He had not raised his voice, but
he had given it carrying quality. Cary raised his eyes, and laid down
the paper he had in his hand. A genial, down-river planter and
magistrate entered the conversation. "Well, I for one don't hold with
all this latter-day hiding behind names out of Roman history! Brutus and
Cato and Helvidius, Decius and Aurelius, and all the rest of them! Is a
man ashamed of his English name?"
"Or afraid?" said Rand, then bit his lip. He had not meant to carry
things so far, but the pent-up anger had its way at last. His mind was
weary and tense, irritable from two sleepless nights and from futile
decisions, and he inherited a tendency to black and sudden rage. It was
true he had walked through life with a black dog at his heels. Sometimes
he turned, closed with, throttled, and flung off his pursuer; sometimes
he left him far behind; more than once he had seen him mastered and done
with, dead by the wayside, had drawn free breath, and had gone on with a
victor's brow. Then, when all the fields were smiling, came at a bound
the dark shape, leaped at the throat, and hung there. It was so this
evening at Lynch's. He strove with his passion, but he was aware of a
wish to strive no longer, to let the black dog have his way.
There was a laugh for the speaker before him. "You see, sir," cried a
noted lawyer, "Brutus and Cato, Helvidius, Decius, and Aurelius, and
all the noble Romans died before duelling came in! 'Sir, the editor of
the--ahem!--newspaper, I take exception to this statement in your
pages.' 'Sir, I refer you to Junius Brutus. Answer, Roman!' Never a
sound from Limbo!--'Sir, Decius has grossly misrepresented. Where shall
I send my challenge?' 'To Hades, no less! Not the least use in knocking
up John Randolph of Roanoke.'--'Sir, I am at odds with Aurelius. Pray
favour me with the gentleman's address.' 'Sir, he left no name. You see,
he lived so long ago!'"
Amid the laugh that followed, Cary turned a smiling face upon the
speaker. "_I_ will answer, Mr. Wickham, for Aurelius. Do you really want
to challenge me?" He slightly changed his position so as to confront
Rand's table. "In this instance, Mr. Rand, I am certain there was no
fear."
His speech, heard of all, wrought in various ways. Mocket the day before
had not exaggerated the general interest in the letter signed
"Aurelius." Now at Lynch's there arose a small tumult of surprise,
acclaim, enthusiasm, and dissent. His friends broke into triumph, his
political enemies--he had few others--strove for a deeper frown and a
growling note. The only indifferent in Lynch's was Adam Gaudylock, who
smoked tranquilly on, not having read the letter in question nor being
concerned with Roman history. Lewis Rand sat in silence with compressed
lips, bodily there in the lit coffee room, but the inner man far away on
the mind's dark plains, struggling with the fiend that dogged him.
Fairfax Cary's cheek glowed and his eyes shone. He looked at his
brother, then poured a glass of wine and raised it to his lips. "Wait,
Fairfax! We'll all drink with you!" cried a neighbour. "Gentlemen and
Federalists, glasses!--Ludwell Cary, and may he live to hear his
children's children read 'Aurelius'!"
The Federalists drank the toast with acclaim, while the Republicans with
equal ostentation did no such thing. Mr. Pincornet in his corner,
hearing the words "Gentlemen" and "Cary," drank with gusto his very thin
wine, and Adam drank because he had always liked the Carys and certainly
had no grudge against "Aurelius," whoever he might be.
In the first lull of sound the man at the table with Lewis Rand spoke in
a loud, harsh, but agreeable voice. "Well, Mr. Cary, the staunchest of
Republicans, though he can't drink that toast, need not deny praise to a
masterpiece of words. Words, sir, not facts. What I want to know is at
whom--not at what, at _whom_--you were firing? I thought once that Aaron
Burr was your mark. But he's too light metal--a mere buccaneer! That
broadside of yours would predicate a general foe--and I'm damned if I
wouldn't like to know his name!"
"We would all like to know his name," said Rand. "And when we know it, I
for one would like to hear Mr. Cary's proofs of faithlessness to
obligations."
In the hush of expectation which fell upon the room the eyes of the two
men met. In Rand's there was something cold and gleaming, something that
was not his father's nor his grandfather's, but his own, deadly but
markedly courageous. Cary's look was more masked, grave, and collected,
with the merest quiver of the upper lip. In the mind of each the curtain
strangely lifted, not upon Richmond or Fontenoy or the Court House at
Charlottesville, but upon a long past day and the Albemarle woods and
two boys gathering nuts together. This lasted but an instant, then Cary
spoke. "In that letter, Judge Roane, 'Aurelius' had no thought of Aaron
Burr. I doubt if in writing he meant to give to any image recognizable
face and form. I think that, very largely, he believed himself but
personifying the powers of evil and the tendencies thereto inherent in
the Democrat-Republican as in all human doctrine. If he builded better
than he knew, if he held the mirror up, if, in short, there's any whom
the cap fits"--He paused a moment, then said sternly, "Let the wearer,
whoever he may be, look to his steps!" and turned to face Rand. "Seeing
there is no name to divulge, there are of course no proofs of
faithlessness." He rose. "It is growing late, gentlemen, and I, for one,
am committed to Mrs. Ambler's party. Who goes towards the Eagle?"
There was a movement throughout the coffee room. It was full dark, home
beckoned, and a number besides Cary were pledged to the evening's
entertainment. From every table men were rising, gathering up their
papers, when Rand's voice, harsh, raised, and thick with passion, jarred
the room. "I hold, Mr. Cary, that not even to please his fine
imagination is a gentleman justified in publicly weaving caps of so
particular a description!"
Cary turned sharply. "Not even when he weaves it for a man of
straw?--your own expression, Mr. Rand."
"Even men of straw," answered the other thickly, "find sometimes a
defender. By God, I'll not endure it!"
"All this," said Cary scornfully,--"all this for the usual, the
familiar, the expected Federalist criticism of Republican precept and
practice! What, specifically, is it, Mr. Rand, that you'll not endure?"
"I'll endure," replied Rand, in a strained, monotonous, and menacing
voice, "no taunt from you."
As he spoke, he threw himself forward. "Have a care, sir!" cried Cary,
and flung out his arm. He had seen, and the men around had seen, the
intention of the blow. It was not struck. Amid the commotion that arose,
Rand suddenly, and with an effort so violent and so directed that it had
scarcely been in the scope of any other there, checked himself upon the
precipice's verge, stood rigid, and strove with white lips for
self-command. His inmost, his highest man had no desire to feel or to
exhibit ungoverned rage, but there was a legion against him--and the
black and furious dog. The coffee house was in a ferment.
"Gentlemen--gentlemen!--What's the quarrel, Rand?--Ludwell Cary, I'm at
your service!--Bills and bows! bills and bows!--or is it coffee and
pistols?" Fairfax Cary had sprung to his brother's side. Adam Gaudylock,
annihilating in some mysterious fashion the distance between the corner
table and the group in the light of the fire, was visible over Rand's
shoulder. Mr. Pincornet, chin in air and with his hand where once a
sword had been, tiptoed upon the fringe of the crowd. The clamour went
on. "Is it a challenge?--was a blow struck?--Mr. Cary, command me--Mr.
Rand--"
Cary and Rand, standing opposed, three feet of bare floor between them,
looked fixedly at each other. Both were pale, both breathing heavily,
but for both the unthinking moment had passed. Reflection had come and
was standing there between them. To Rand it wore more faces than one,
but to Cary it was steadily a form in white with amethysts about the
neck. There had been--it was well, it was best--no blow struck, no lie
given. Cary drew a long breath, shook himself slightly like a swimmer
who has breasted a formidable wave, and broke into a laugh. "No affront
and no challenge, gentlemen! That is so, is it not, Mr. Rand?"
If there was an instant's sombre hesitation, it was no more. "Yes, that
is so," said Rand. "After all, men should be more stable. There is no
quarrel, gentlemen."
He bowed ceremoniously to Cary, who returned the salute. Each moved from
where he had stood, and the tide at Lynch's came between them. There was
some questioning, some excited speech, some natural disappointment at
matters going no further. It was not clearly understood what offence
had been given or what taken, but many felt aggrieved by the check on
the threshold of a likely affair. However, it was, they could concede,
the business of the two principals, each of whom could afford to ignore
any seeming reflection upon his unreadiness to pick up the glove--if a
glove had been thrown. As the assemblage broke up and flowed homeward,
the most pertinent comment, perhaps, was that of the down-river planter:
"If 'twas just a breeze, and all over, why didn't they shake hands? Gad!
when I was young and we fell out and made up over the wine, we went
roaring home arm over shoulder! Your manners are too cold. A bow is
nothing--one can bow to a villain! Men of honour, when the quarrel's
over, should shake hands!"
"Precisely," said his companion, who chanced to be Mr. Wickham. "They
are men of honour; they didn't shake hands. _Ergo_ the quarrel's not
over!--Here we are at the Eagle."