The smoke from the pipes and cigars grew thicker, and Harry, leaving his comrades in the crowd, walked out upon the portico.
The crisp, fresh air of the February night came like a heavenly tonic.
He remained there a little while, breathing it in, expanding his lungs, and rejoicing.

Then he walked over to the exact spot upon which Jefferson Davis had stood, when he delivered his speech of acceptance.
He was so full of the scene that he shut his eyes and beheld it again.
He tried to imagine the feelings of a man at such a moment, knowing himself the chosen of millions, and feeling that all eyes were upon him.
Truly it would be enough to make the dullest heart leap.
He opened his eyes, and although he stood in darkness on the portico, he saw a dusky figure at the far edge of it, standing between two pillars, and looking in at one of the windows.

The man, whoever he was, seemed to be intently watching those inside, and Harry saw at once that it was not a look of mere curiosity.

It was the gaze of one who wished to understand as well as to know.

He moved a little nearer.