With a shrug MacLean joined him. "As you please," he said. "I have in
spirit moved with you through London streets. I never thought to walk with
you in the flesh."

It was yet warm and bright in the street, the dust thick, the air heavy
with the odors of the May. Haward and MacLean walked in silence, each as
to the other, one as to the world at large. Now and again the Virginian
must stop to bow profoundly to curtsying ladies, or to take snuff with
some portly Councilor or less stately Burgess who, coming from the
Capitol, chanced to overtake them. When he paused his storekeeper paused
also, but, having no notice taken of him beyond a glance to discern his
quality, needed neither a supple back nor a ready smile.

Haward lodged upon Palace Street, in a square brick house, lived in by an
ancient couple who could remember Puritan rule in Virginia, who had served
Sir William Berkeley, and had witnessed the burning of Jamestown by Bacon.
There was a grassy yard to the house, and the path to the door lay through
an alley of lilacs, purple and white. The door was open, and Haward and
MacLean, entering, crossed the hall, and going into a large, low room,
into which the late sunshine was streaming, found the negro Juba setting
cakes and wine upon the table.

"This gentleman hath a broken head, Juba," said the master. "Bring water
and linen, and bind it up for him."

As he spoke he laid aside hat and rapier, and motioned MacLean to a seat
by the window. The latter obeyed the gesture in silence, and in silence
submitted to the ministrations of the negro. Haward, sitting at the table,
waited until the wound had been dressed; then with a wave of the hand