They were now ascending the mountain, moving between great trees, fanned
by a cooler wind than had blown in the valley. The road turned, showing
them a bit of roadside grass, a giant tulip tree, and a vision of a moon
just rising in the east. Upon a log, beneath the tree, appeared the dim
brocade and the curled wig of M. Achille Pincornet, resting in the
twilight and solacing his soul with the air of "Madelon Friquet." Around
him sparkled the fireflies, and above were the thousand gold cups of the
tulip tree. His bow achieved a long tremolo; he lowered the violin from
his chin, stood up, and greeted the travellers.

"That was a pretty air, Mr. Pincornet," said Rand. "Why are you on the
Monticello road? Your next dancing class is at Fontenoy."

"And how did you know that, sir?" demanded the Frenchman in his high,
thin voice. As he spoke, he restored his fiddle to its case with great
care, then as carefully brushed all leaf and mould from his faded silken
clothes.

"I know--I know," replied Rand. He regarded the figure in dusty finery
with a certain envy of any one who was going to Fontenoy, even as
dancing master, even as a man no longer young. Mr. Pincornet looked, in
the twilight, very pinched, very grey, very hungry. "Come on with me to
Monticello," said the young man. "Burwell will give us supper, and find
us a couple of bottles to boot."

"Sir," answered the Frenchman stiffly, but with an inner vision of
Monticello cheer, "I would not vote for you--"

Rand laughed. "I bear no malice, Mr. Pincornet. Opinion's but opinion.
I'll cut no traveller's throat because he likes another road than mine!