sign about the lad's nostrils.

"Harry Riddle," said the boy, "if it weren't for you, I'd be riding in
this coach to-day with my mother. I don't want to ride with her, but I
will go to the races. If you try to take me down, I'll do my best to kill
you," and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.

Mrs. Temple's beautiful face had by this time been thrust out of the
door.

"For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with us. We're late
enough as it is."

Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at Nick, but he broke
into a laugh instead.

"Come down, Satan," says he. "God help the woman you love and the man
you fight."

And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach. The footman picked
himself up, more scared than injured, and the vehicle took its lumbering
way for the race-course, I following.

I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that in the gorgeous
dress of those who watched. There had been many, many more in former
years, so I heard people say. This was the only sign that a war was in
progress,--the scanty number of gentry present,--for all save the
indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall it dimly, as
a blaze of color passing: merrymaking, jesting, feasting,--a rare
contrast, I thought, to the sight I had beheld in Charlestown Bay but a