CHAPTER II.


The sun was up before he woke. He rose hastily and ordered breakfast
and a horse; for he had resolved the day before upon an early ride. A
restless, undefined feeling led him in the same direction he had taken
the preceding evening. He passed the house that would forevermore be
a prominent feature in the landscape of his life. Vines were gently
waving in the morning air between the pillars of the piazza, where he
had lingered entranced to hear the tones of "Buena Notte." The bright
turban of Tulipa was glancing about, as she dusted the blinds. A
peacock on the balustrade, in the sunshine, spread out his tail into a
great Oriental fan, and slowly lowered it, making a prismatic shower
of topaz, sapphires, and emeralds as it fell. It was the first of
March; but as he rode on, thinking of the dreary landscape and
boisterous winds of New England at that season, the air was filled
with the fragrance of flowers, and mocking-birds and thrushes saluted
him with their songs. In many places the ground was thickly strewn
with oranges, and the orange-groves were beautiful with golden fruit
and silver flowers gleaming among the dark glossy green foliage.
Here and there was the mansion of a wealthy planter, surrounded by
whitewashed slave-cabins. The negroes at their work, and their black
picaninnies rolling about on the ground, seemed an appropriate part of
the landscape, so tropical in its beauty of dark colors and luxuriant
growth.

He rode several miles, persuading himself that he was enticed solely