When he paused his storekeeper paused also, but, having no notice taken of him beyond a glance to discern his quality, needed neither a supple back nor a ready smile.
Haward lodged upon Palace Street, in a square brick house, lived in by an ancient couple who could remember Puritan rule in Virginia, who had served Sir William Berkeley, and had witnessed the burning of Jamestown by Bacon.
There was a grassy yard to the house, and the path to the door lay through an alley of lilacs, purple and white.

The door was open, and Haward and MacLean, entering, crossed the hall, and going into a large, low room, into which the late sunshine was streaming, found the negro Juba setting cakes and wine upon the table.
"This gentleman hath a broken head, Juba," said the master.

"Bring water and linen, and bind it up for him." As he spoke he laid aside hat and rapier, and motioned MacLean to a seat by the window.

The latter obeyed the gesture in silence, and in silence submitted to the ministrations of the negro.

Haward, sitting at the table, waited until the wound had been dressed; then with a wave of the hand dismissed the black.
"You would take nothing at my hands the other day," he said to the grim figure at the window.