"Ay," said Haward, gathering up his cards. "'Tis yours to play."

"Juba told me that you had called for Mirza, and had ridden away to the
glebe house."

"True," answered the other. "And what then?"

There was a note of warning in his voice, but MacLean did not choose to
heed. "I rowed on down the river, past the mouth of the creek," he
continued, with deliberation. "There was a mound of grass and a mass of
colored vines"--

"And a blood-red oak," finished Haward coldly. "Shall we pay closer regard
to what we are doing? I play the king."

"You were there!" exclaimed the Highlander. "You--not Jean Hugon--searched
for and found the poor maid's hiding-place." The red came into his tanned
cheek. "Now, by St. Andrew!" he began; then checked himself.

Haward tapped with his finger the bit of painted pasteboard before him. "I
play the king," he repeated, in an even voice; then struck a bell, and
when Juba appeared ordered the negro to bring wine and to stir the fire.
The flames, leaping up, lent strange animation to the face of the lady
above the mantelshelf, and a pristine brightness to the swords crossed
beneath the painting. The slave moved about the room, drawing the curtains
more closely, arranging all for the night. While he was present the
players gave their attention to the game, but with the sound of the
closing door MacLean laid down his cards.