The floor, rubbed each morning until it shone, gave back the
heart-shaped flames. The slight furniture they pushed aside. The dancing
master tucked his violin under his chin, drew the bow across the
strings, and began the lesson.

The candles burned clear, strains of the _minuet de la cour_ rose and
fell in the ample room, the member from Albemarle and Mr. Pincornet
stepped, bent, and postured with the gravity of Indian sachems. The one
moved through the minuet in top-boots and riding-coat, the other taught
in what had been a red brocade. Rand, though tall and largely built,
moved with the step and carriage, light and lithe, of one who has used
the woods; the Frenchman had the suppleness of his profession and of an
ancient courtier. Now they bowed one to the other, now each to an
imaginary lady. Mr. Pincornet issued directions in the tone of a general
ordering a charge, his pupil obeyed implicitly. In the silent house,
raised high on a mountain-top above a sleeping world, in the lit room
with many open windows, through which poured the fragrance of spring,
they practised until midnight the _minuet de la cour._ The hour struck;
they gravely ceased to dance, and after five minutes spent in mutual
compliments, closed the long windows and put out the superfluous lights,
then said good-night, and, bedroom candle in hand, repaired each to his
own chamber. Rand had risen at dawn, and his day had been a battlefield,
but before he lay down in the dimity-hung, four-post bed he sat long at
the window of his small, white, quiet room. The moon shone brightly; the
air was soft and sweet. In the distance a lamb bleated, then all was
still again. The young man rested his chin on his hand, and studied the
highest stars. That day a milestone had been passed. He saw his road
stretching far, far before him, and he saw certain fellow travellers,
but the companion whom his heart cried for he could not see.