That of Mrs. Waugh said: 

“Do have pity on the fools, and go, Thurston.”

That of Thurston said: 

“I am going, Mrs. Waugh, and without laughing, if I can help it.”

Then he picked up his shooting cap, bowed to Jacquelina, shook hands with Mrs. Waugh, and pressing Marian’s palm, left within it the note that he had written, took up his game bag and gun, and departed.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SANS SOUCI’S LAST FUN.

“The inconceivable idiots!” said Thurston, as he strode on through the park of Luckenough, “to fancy that any one with eyes, heart and brain, could possibly fall in love with the ‘Will-o’-the-wisp’ Jacquelina, or worse, that giglet, Angelica; when he sees Marian!  Marian, whose least sunny tress is dearer to me than are all the living creatures in the world besides.  Marian, for whose possession I am now about to risk everything, even her own esteem.  Yet, she will forgive me; I will earn her forgiveness by such devoted love.”

He hurried on until he reached an outer gate, through which old Oliver was driving a cart loaded with wood.  As if to disencumber himself, he threw his game bag and valuable fowling piece to the old man, saying: 

“There, uncle; there’s a present for you,” and without waiting to hear his thanks, hurried on, leaping hedges and ditches, until he came to the spot where he had left his horse tied since the morning.  Throwing himself into his saddle, he put spurs to his horse, and galloped away toward the village, nor drew rein until he reached a little tavern on the water side.  He threw his bridle to an hostler in waiting, and hurrying in, demanded to be shown into a private room.  The little parlor was placed at his disposal.  Here, for form’s sake, he called for the newspaper, cigars and a bottle of wine (none of which he discussed, however), dismissed the attendant, and sat waiting.

Presently the odor of tar, bilge water, tobacco and rum warned him that his expected visitor was approaching.  And an instant after the door was opened, and a short, stout, dark man in a weather-proof jacket, duck trousers, cow-hide shoes, and tarpaulin hat entered.

“Well, Miles, I’ve been waiting for you here more than an hour,” said Thurston, impatiently.

“Ay, ay, sir—­all right.  I’ve been cruising round, reconnoitering the enemy’s coast,” replied the man, removing the quid of tobacco from his mouth, and reluctantly casting it into the fire.

“You are sure you know the spot?”

“Ay, ay? sir—­the beach just below the Old Fields farmhouse.”

“And south of the Pine Bluff.”

“Ay, ay, sir.  I know the port—­that ain’t the head wind!” said Jack Miles, pushing up the side of his hat, and scratching his head with a look of doubt and hesitation.

“What is, then, you blockhead?” asked Thurston, impatiently; “is your hire insufficient?”