LACHLAN slept late the next morning. When he had arisen and had breakfasted, he turned his back on the April sunshine which made Charles Town as fair as Eden, climbed once more to his room, and sat down at his table with quill, ink and paper before him.
For some minutes he sat idle, gazing out of the open window where a willow-oak limb swayed slightly in the breeze. Below, a negro gardener chanted a barbaric hymn as he hoed his weeds. Faint and far, from the direction of the harbour, sounded the song of sailors toiling at the halliards of the ship Sea Swallow, whose sails were set for London. These human voices supplied the undertones, but they could scarcely be heard for the music of the birds. The whole bright April air, rich with the scent of innumerable blossoms, was a-ripple with bird music—music of mockingbirds cardinals and wrens, and gorgeous blue and green and crimson nonpareils.
Lachlan heard and yet did not hear, for his thoughts were busy. But when of a sudden a black and russet oriole of that slim, graceful species which was called sanguilla in Carolina, burst into spirited song in the oak just outside the window, he seemed to waken
