It came gently, flowing through the gaps in the Blue Ridge Mountains and spilling over the valleys below, rustling the leaves outside the big house. They rustled, were still, then again they stirred. Mat Brionne, who was not quite seven, lay awake, listening. His father was in Washington to see President Grant, but was expected home soon, and Mat was eager for any sound that might herald his coming. Mat loved his father, a tall, fine-looking man in uniform or out, a superb horseman, and as the neighbors said, “as fine a shot as ever held a gun.” The rustling of leaves stilled momentarily, and in the silence Mat heard a faint stir of horses moving up the lane from the highroad. These horses moved almost silently, which was not like his father’s coming would be. The curtains at the window were open, and in the faint light Mat could see the hands of the clock. He had just learned to tell time, and was very aware of each hour. It was past midnight. As he listened, the sounds ceased. Uneasy, remembering the stories of Indians and of renegades, he slipped from his bed and peered down into the yard.
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