"Then you go home," he said, "You go home now. Something happen. Monsieur
very angry. Something bad--you understan'?"

"He is in the house?" I asked.

Brutus nodded.

"Then take this horse," I said, and swung open the front door.

A draft eddied through the broad old hallway as I stepped over the
threshold, and there was a smell of wood smoke that told me the chimneys
were still cold from disuse. Someone had stored the hall full of coils of
rope and sailcloth, but in the midst of it the same tall clock was
ticking out its cycle, and the portraits of the Shelton family still hung
against the white panels.

The long, brown rows of books still lined the walls of the morning room.
The long mahogany table in the center was still littered with maps and
papers. There were the same rusted muskets and small swords in the rack
by the fireplace, and in front of the fire in a great, high-backed
armchair my father was sitting. I paused with a curious feeling of doubt,
surprise and diffidence. Somehow I had pictured a different meeting and a
different man. He must surely have heard my step and the jingling of my
spurs as I crossed the room, but he never so much as raised his head. He
still rested, leaning indolently back, watching the flames dance up the
chimney. He was dressed in gray satin small clothes that went well with
his slender figure. His wig was fresh powdered, and his throat and wrists
were framed in spotless lace. The care of his person was almost the only
tribute he paid to his past.