As I did so I saw approaching a gentleman who was looking with interest at my mount.  He was one of the most striking men I have ever seen, a stranger as I could see, for I knew each family on both sides the Blue Ridge as far up the valley as White Sulphur.

“A grand animal you have there, sir,” said he, accosting Me.  “I did not know his like existed in this country.”

“As well in this as in any country,” said I tartly.  He smiled at this.

“You know his breeding?”

“Klingwalla out of Bonnie Waters.”

“No wonder he’s vicious,” said the stranger, calmly.

“Ah, you know something of the English strains,” said I. He shrugged his shoulders.  “As much as that,” he commented indifferently.

There was something about him I did not fancy, a sort of condescension, as though he were better than those about him.  They say that we Virginians have a way of reserving that right to ourselves; and I suppose that a family of clean strain may perhaps become proud after generations of independence and comfort and freedom from care.  None the less I was forced to admit this newcomer to the class of gentlemen.  He stood as a gentleman, with no resting or bracing with an arm, or crossing of legs or hitching about, but balanced on his legs easily—­like a fencer or boxer or fighting man, or gentleman, in short.  His face, as I now perceived, was long and thin, his chin square, although somewhat narrow.  His mouth, too, was narrow, and his teeth were narrow, one of the upper teeth at each side like the tooth of a carnivore, longer than its fellows.  His hair was thick and close cut to his head, dark, and if the least bit gray about the edges, requiring close scrutiny to prove it so.  In color his skin was dark, sunburned beyond tan, almost to parchment dryness.  His eyes were gray, the most remarkable eyes that I have ever seen—­calm, emotionless, direct, the most fearless eyes I have ever seen in mortal head, and I have looked into many men’s eyes in my time.  He was taller than most men, I think above the six feet line.  His figure was thin, his limbs thin, his hands and feet slender.  He did not look one-tenth his strength.  He was simply dressed, dressed indeed as a gentleman.  He stood as one, spoke as one, and assumed that all the world accepted him as one.  His voice was warmer in accent than even our Virginia speech.  I saw him to be an Englishman.

“He is a bit nasty, that one”; he nodded his head toward Satan.

I grinned.  “I know of only two men in Fairfax County I’d back to ride him.”

“Yourself and—­”

“My father.”

“By Jove!  How old is your father, my good fellow?”

“Sixty, my good fellow,” I replied.  He laughed.

“Well,” said he, “there’s a third in Fairfax can ride him.”

“Meaning yourself?”

He nodded carelessly.  I did not share his confidence.  “He’s not a saddler in any sense,” said I.  “We keep him for the farms.”