l do my best to
kill you," and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.

Mrs. Temple's beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the
door.

"For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us. We're late
enough as it is."

Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke
into a laugh instead.

"Come down, Satan," says he. "God help the woman you love and the man
you fight."

And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach. The footman picked
himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering
way for the race-course, I following.

I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous
dress of those who watched. There had been many, many more in former
years, so I heard people say. This was the only sign that a war was
in progress,--the scanty number of gentry present,--for all save the
indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall it dimly,
as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,--a rare
contrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay but
a while before. Yet so runs the world,--strife at one man's home, and
peace and contentment at his neighbor's; sorrow here, and rejoicing not
a league away.

Master Nicholas played one prank that evening that was near to costing
dear. My lady Temple made up a party for Temple Bow at the course, two
other coaches to come and some gentlemen riding. As Nick and I were
running through the paddock we came suddenly upon Mr. Harry Riddle and
a stout, swarthy gentleman standing together. The stout gentleman was
counting out big gold pieces in his hand and giving them to Mr. Riddle.

"Lucky dog!" said the stout gentleman; "you'll ride back with her, and
you've won all I've got." And he dug Mr. Riddle in the ribs.

"You'll have it again when we play to-night, Darnley," answered Mr.
Riddle, crossly. "And as for the seat in the coach, you are welcome to
it. That firebrand of a lad is on the front seat."

"D--n the lad," said the stout gentleman. "I'll take it, and you can
ride my horse. He'll--he'll carry you, I reckon." His voice had a way of
cracking into a mellow laugh.

At that Mr. Riddle went off in a towering bad humor, and afterwards I
heard him cursing the stout gentleman's black groom as he mounted his
great horse. And then he cursed the horse as it reared and plunged,
while the stout gentleman stood at the coach door, cackling at his
discomfiture. The