On one of these gallops farthest afield I chanced upon the bridle-path
that led to our old hunting lodge in the forest depths. Tracing the path
to its end among the maples I found the cabin, so lightly touched by
time that the mere sight of it carried me swiftly back to those happy
days when my father and I had stalked the white-tailed deer in the hill
glades beyond, with this log-built cabin for a rest-camp. I spurred up
under the low-hanging trees. The door stood wide, and a thin wreath of
blue smoke curled upward from the mouth of the wattled chimney.

Then and there I had my first welcome home. Old black Darius--old when I
had last seen him at Appleby Hundred, and a very grandsire of ancients
now--was one of the runaways who made the forest lodge a refuge. He had
been my father's body-servant, and, notwithstanding all the years that
lay between, he knew me at once.

Thereupon, as you would guess, I came immediately into some small
portion of my kingdom. Though Darius was the patriarch, the other blacks
were also fugitives from Appleby Hundred; and for the son of Roger
Ireton there was instant vassalage and loyal service. But best of all,
on my first evening before the handful of fire in the great fire-place,
Darius brought me a package swathed in many wrappings of Indian-tanned
deerskin. It contained my father's sword, and, more precious than this,
a message from the dead. My father's farewell was written upon a leaf
torn from his journal, and was but a hasty scrawl. I here transcribe it.

_My Son:_

_I know not if this will ever come into your hands, but it and
my sword shall be left in trust with the faithful Darius. We