igure as a line which the
sheriff had drawn would permit, turned at the sound of rapid hoofs and
watched the Churchills and Fairfax Cary, with Wilson and Eli, come down
to the stream.

"Back, all of you, men!" ordered the sheriff, in a low voice. "That is
Mr. Fairfax Cary"; then turned to a spectator or two of importance: "Mr.
Morris, Mr. Page--I hope you'll be so good as to meet them with me? This
is a dreadful thing!"

The Fontenoy party splashed through Indian Run and dismounted. It was
not an ungentle people, and the little strand, from the woods to the
water, was now free from intruding figures. Only the sheriff, the
coroner, and the two planters, old friends and neighbours, remained, and
these joined the Churchills. Fairfax Cary walked alone to his brother's
side and stood, looking down.

Ludwell Cary lay peacefully. One arm was outstretched, the head a little
back, the face quiet, with nothing in it of wrath or fear or pain. The
storm had not hurt him. There was little disarray. It was much as though
he had thrown himself down there, beside the water, with a sigh for the
pleasure of rest. The younger Cary waited motionless for the blood to
come back to his heart and the mist before his eyes to clear. It
cleared; he saw plainly his brother, guide, and friend, and with a cry
he flung himself down and across the body.

The men at the water's edge turned away their faces. The rudest unit of
the small throng beneath the trees put up a sudden hand and removed his
cap, and his example was followed. It had been a known thing, the
comradeship of these brothers, and there were few in the county more
loved than the Carys.

Moments passed. The sheriff spoke in a low voice to Mr. Morris,
whereupon the latter whispered to Colonel Churchill. "Edward," said the
Colonel, "time's being lost. Hadn't you better try to get him away?"

Major Edward moved along the bank to the two forms and stood in silence,
gazing with twitching lips at the dead man's countenance, so impassive,
cold, remote, alien now from all interests of this flesh, quite
indifferent to love or to hate, supremely careless as to whether his
story were ever told. The Major put his hand to his fierce old eagle
eyes, and took it away wet with tears, slow, acrid, and difficult. He
stooped and touched the living man. "Fair,--come, Fair!"

The other moved slightly, but did not offer to rise. Major Edward
waited, then touched him again. "Fair, we want to mark closel