CHAPTER XIII.
THE LADY OF THE PERGOLA April, April, Laugh, thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish, tears! April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears! -- William Watson.
A few photographs of foreign scenes tacked on the walls; a Roman blanket hung as a tapestry over the mantel; a portfolio and traveler's writing materials distributed about a table produced for the purpose, and additions to the meager book-shelf--a line of Baedekers, a pocket atlas, a comprehensive American railway guide, several volumes of German and French poetry--and the place was not so bad.

Armitage slept for an hour after a simple luncheon had been prepared by Oscar, studied his letters and cablegrams--made, in fact, some notes in regard to them--and wrote replies.

Then, at four o'clock, he told Oscar to saddle the horses.
"It is spring, and in April a man's blood will not be quiet.

We shall go forth and taste the air." He had studied the map of Lamar County with care, and led the way out of his own preserve by the road over which they had entered in the morning.
Oscar and his horses were a credit to the training of the American army, and would have passed inspection anywhere.

Armitage watched his adjutant with approval.