at Grinder's stand, the last cabin on the borders of the Chickasaw country.
"May I stay for the night?" he inquired of the woman at the door.
"Come you alone?" she asked.
"My servants are behind. Bring me some wine."
Alighting and bringing in his saddle, the Governor touched the wine and turned away. Pulling off his loose white blue-striped travelling gown, he waited for his servants.
The woman scanned her guest,—of elegant manners and courtly bearing, he was evidently a gentleman. But a troubled look on his face, an impatient walk to and fro, denoted something wrong. She listened,—he was talking to himself. His sudden wheels and turns and strides startled her.
"Where is my powder? I am sure there was some powder in my canister," he said to the servants at the door.
After a mouthful of supper, he suddenly started up, speaking in a violent manner, flushed and excited. Then, lighting his pipe, he sat down by the cabin door.
"Madame, this is a very pleasant evening."
Mrs. Grinder noted the kindly tone, the handsome, haggard face, the air of abstraction. Quietly he smoked for a time, then again he flushed, arose excitedly, and stepped into the yard. There he began pacing angrily to and fro.
But again he sat down to his pipe, and again seemed composed. He cast his eyes toward the west, that West, the scene of his toils and triumphs.
"What a sweet evening it is!" He had seen that same sun silvering the northern rivers, gilding the peaks of the Rockies, and sinking into the Pacific. It all came over him now, like a soothing dream, calming the fevered soul and stilling its tumult.
The woman was preparing the usual feather-bed for her guest.
"I beg you, Madame, do not trouble yourself. Pernia, bring my bearskins and buffalo
