HOW HE WON HER.
                                   A
                         SEQUEL TO “FAIR PLAY.”


                                    BY

                      MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

   AUTHOR OF “FAIR PLAY,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,”
 “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “THE LOST
 HEIRESS,” “THE FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,”
  “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “LADY OF THE
  ISLE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “VIVIA,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,”
   “INDIA,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE DESERTED
  WIFE,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE CHANGED BRIDES,” “THE
                     PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” ETC., ETC.

       “She loved him for the dangers he had passed.”—SHAKSPEARE.
       “None but the brave deserve the fair.”—COLLINS.

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
                          306 CHESTNUT STREET.




        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

                        T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
                for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.


                  MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.

           Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.

             _FAIR PLAY; OR, THE TEST OF THE LONE ISLE._
                 _HOW HE WON HER. A SEQUEL TO FAIR PLAY._
                     _THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS._
                         _THE CHANGED BRIDES._
                             _THE THREE BEAUTIES._
                                 _THE WIFE’S VICTORY._
                                     _THE MOTHER-IN-LAW._
             _FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._
                 _THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN._
                     _THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY._
                         _THE FORTUNE SEEKER._
                             _THE DESERTED WIFE._
                                 _THE LOST HEIRESS._
                                     _RETRIBUTION._
             _INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._
                 _THE FATAL MARRIAGE._
                     _THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._
                         _LOVE’S LABOR WON._
                             _THE MISSING BRIDE._
                                 _LADY OF THE ISLE._
                                     _THE TWO SISTERS._
             _VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER._
                 _THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._
                     _THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER._
                         _THE WIDOW’S SON._
                             _ALLWORTH ABBEY._
                                 _THE BRIDAL EVE._

        Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,

                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
                 306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.




                                   TO

                      MRS. FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN,

                          OF WASHINGTON CITY;

                IN COMMEMORATION OF HER ENTIRE DEVOTION,

                     FOR THE PERIOD OF FOUR YEARS,

                   TO THE SICK AND WOUNDED SOLDIERS,

                           IN THE HOSPITALS,

                         THIS STORY OF THE WAR

                      IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

                             BY HER SISTER.

 PROSPECT COTTAGE,
         GEORGETOWN, D. C.
                 FEBRUARY, 1869.




                               CONTENTS.


            Chapter                                       Page
                I.— ERMINIE’S STORY                         25
               II.— THE VETERAN’S RETURN                    34
              III.— JUSTIN ENLISTS.—ELFIE DRILLS            45
               IV.— THE SOLDIER’S LOVE                      54
                V.— THE LOVERS’ PARTING                     68
               VI.— THE GUERRILLA’S WIFE                    80
              VII.— ABOUT ALBERTA                           92
             VIII.— ABOUT BRITOMARTE                       103
               IX.— AN UNEXPECTED GUEST AT A PICNIC        115
                X.— AS THE LION WOOS HIS BRIDE             130
               XI.— A MOONLIGHT FLIGHT                     143
              XII.— THE OUTLAW’S LOVE                      155
             XIII.— THE ALARM                              168
              XIV.— THE FLIGHT                             178
               XV.— COLONEL ROSENTHAL                      193
              XVI.— THE MEETING                            208
             XVII.— THE GUERRILLA’S ENCAMPMENT             216
            XVIII.— MONCK                                  224
              XIX.— A COLD-BLOODED SENTENCE                232
               XX.— THE WHISPER                            244
              XXI.— THE MOUNTAIN CAMP                      256
             XXII.— THE MARCH                              269
            XXIII.— THE BATTLE                             278
             XXIV.— THE FATE OF THE FREE SWORD             283
              XXV.— AFTER THE BATTLE                       287
             XXVI.— ELFIE IN THE GROVE                     290
            XXVII.— REQUIESCAT IN PACE                     300
           XXVIII.— ELFIE’S RETURN                         304
             XXIX.— ELFIE’S VISIT TO LITTLE MIM            315
              XXX.— AN UNEXPECTED MEETING IN THE HOSPITAL  323
             XXXI.— POOR ELFIE’S HONEYMOON                 334
            XXXII.— THE REBEL RIDES ON HIS RAIDS NO MORE   345
           XXXIII.— AT PEACE                               356
            XXXIV.— WING’S GALLANT CHARGE                  366
             XXXV.— DEATH LIGHTS                           374
            XXXVI.— THE DEATH WATCH                        385
           XXXVII.— THE GHOSTLY VISITOR                    397
          XXXVIII.— ELFIE’S VISION                         408
            XXXIX.— BOB’S SPECTRE                          422
               XL.— ON THE BATTLE-FIELD                    432
              XLI.— THE SURPRISE                           444
             XLII.— “THE BEGINNING OF THE END.”            460
            XLIII.— DELIVERANCE AT LAST                    469
             XLIV.— AFTER A WHILE                          480
              XLV.— THE WOMAN’S DEAREST RIGHT              497




                            HOW HE WON HER.




                               CHAPTER I.
                            ERMINIE’S STORY.

              How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
              By all their country’s wishes blest!
              When spring with dewy fingers cold
              Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
              She there shall dress a sweeter sod
              Than fancy’s feet have ever trod.
              By fairy hands their knell is rung,
              By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
              There honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
              To bless the turf that wraps their clay
              And freedom shall awhile repair
              To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.—COLLINS.


It was not until the morning succeeding his arrival, after breakfast,
when they found themselves alone together in the drawing-room, that
Justin told Erminie the story of his voyage and shipwreck, his
preservation and residence on the Desert Island, and his rescue and
return home.

She listened with breathless interest to his narrative, and when it was
finished she earnestly thanked Heaven for his restoration to his home
and friends.

And then, in return, she gave him the history of all that had occurred
to her since he had first sailed.

She told him of those gathering clouds of disaffection in the South that
no one could be made to believe would ever break in a storm of Civil
War. She spoke of that solemn day in the Senate when the Southern
senators withdrew. She whispered of the shameful, sorrowful day when
Fort Sumter was taken, and, in the language of the man who commanded the
assault, “The proud flag that had never been humbled before—the
star-spangled banner—was humbled to the dust.” She told how these words
had burned in the hearts of all true patriots until they lighted a flame
of love of country, hate of traitors, never to be quenched; how, at the
President’s call for seventy-five thousand men, four times that number
started to arms; how even across the broad Atlantic, in Ireland, the
warm-hearted lovers of the Union had banded together and offered their
services to the Federal Government through our ministers and consuls
abroad; how these had been declined _en masse_, as unneeded then.

Here the Lutheran minister’s orphan child paused to gather strength; for
she had next to speak of the fatal fields of Bethel and Ball’s Bluff;
and of Bull Run, where her brave father fell. She told the awful history
amidst sobs and tears that she could not restrain.

“He died where he fell, before his men, in front of the enemy. He lies
buried near the spot, his grave marked by the care of a brother officer,
his honored remains waiting only the return of peace to be removed.”

“They shall not-await the return of peace, they shall be brought home
immediately,” answered Justin.

Then Erminie spoke of opening her father’s will, and seeing there that
he had left his property to his two children, to be divided between
them, share and share alike.

“Then my dear father did not believe me to be lost?” said Justin.

“_Then_ we none of us did; there had not been time enough for us to grow
anxious. We had got two letters from you, one mailed from Porto Praya,
and one from the Cape of Good Hope. When my dear father died we were
looking daily for a letter from you from Calcutta.”

“I am glad that he had suffered no anxiety on my account. Go on, sweet
sister.”

“Oh, my brother! after that public and private woes came thick and fast.
Defeat after defeat discouraged our army, until at length came the
crushing shame and sorrow of the last battle of Manassas. Blow upon blow
fell upon my own heart, until I thought that the Lord had forgotten to
take care of me. I was still weeping, weeping day and night over the
death of my dear father, when there came news of the wreck of the
Sultana. It came through the officers of that Dutch merchantman who
picked up the life-boat with the missionary party on board; and it came
in the form of a narrative written by the Reverend Mr. Ely. It was
published in all the papers. It contained a list of the names of those
whose lives were lost. And, Justin, your name was among them!”

“Poor sister!”

“I laid down to die. I did so wish for death! But I suppose youth and
life were too strong within me and I lived and suffered. Ah, Justin! I
was a very self-occupied woman up to that time. I thought ‘no sorrow was
like unto my sorrow.’ In the midst of that great bitterness of grief I
received a telegram from New York calling me to the death-bed of our
dear Uncle Friedrich.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I went on immediately and remained with him until he died. Ah, Justin!
The scene of that good man’s peaceful departure went far to heal my
spirit. He talked to me when he was able; his words were few, but very
precious. He told me, in this great crisis of the country’s history,
when for the high and holy cause of union and liberty hundreds were
suffering more than I, and thousands quite as much; I must not sit down
in selfish sorrow, I must get up and minister to those whose sorrows
were as great as mine, and whose necessities were so much greater.”

“He was right, Erminie.”

“I know it and I knew it then. He told me to go among the wounded
soldiers in the numerous hospitals, and with hand and purse minister to
them and relieve their wants. He told me to seek out the bereaved widows
and orphans, and mothers of those who had fallen in the holy war; and to
serve _all_ as far as they should have need and I have power; but
especially—oh! especially to minister to the mourning mothers. ‘Widows,’
he said, ‘may be consoled by second husbands; orphans grow up and forget
their fathers; but the mother whose boy has fallen in battle is
inconsolable and unforgetting forever. Therefore especially, motherless
girl, comfort the childless mothers.’ And kneeling by his bed I kissed
his hands and promised to obey his words. And that same day, as the sun
went down, he died. But it was not until some days had passed that I
knew he had left me all his wealth. Justin, I came home, and I have
religiously obeyed his dying instructions, and—in comforting others I
have found comfort.”

“As all mourners may, if they will, my sweet sister,” replied her
brother. He fell into deep thought for a few minutes, and then, looking
earnestly at his sister, he said:

“But, Erminie, in all this long story you have never once mentioned the
name of Colonel Eastworth. Where is he? What is he doing? Why are you
not married?”

Erminie grew even paler than she had before been; she compressed her
lips until they too faded, and then slowly and steadily answered:

“‘Where is he?’ In South Carolina. ‘What is he doing?’ Warring upon his
native land. ‘Why are we not married?’ Because the child of Ernest
Rosenthal can never be the wife of a man in arms against his country.
Never mention his name to me again, Justin. For he was the very caitiff
who so gloried in his shame as to boast that he had humbled the proud
flag that had never been humbled before!”

And the beautiful eyes of this “falcon-hearted dove” flashed as she
spoke.

Justin put out his arms and drew her to his breast; for he saw that
those flashing eyes were about to be drowned in tears.

“My dear sister! my dear, dear sister, blow upon blow has indeed fallen
fast upon your heart. How much you have suffered!” he said, as he
tenderly soothed her.

She wept upon his bosom for a little while, and then lifting her head
and wiping her eyes, she smiled and said:

“But I have been comforted, Justin. In comforting others I have been
comforted. And now I am more than comforted—I am rejoiced. How all is
changed, in public and in private, from grief to joy. And oh! how
suddenly changed, brother! In a day! Almost in an hour! Yesterday
morning came the glorious news of the victory of Gettysburg, and I knew
that the tide of war had turned. Soon after—very soon after—came a
messenger of joy to me. The minister that brought me the news of your
safe return from—the grave! It was like a miraculous resurrection.
Coming directly upon the news of the great victory, it was almost
overwhelming. There seemed too much joy for one day!”

“I entreated Dr. Sales to break the matter to you very cautiously,” said
Justin.

“Ah! do you think _that_ could be broken to me cautiously?” inquired
Erminie, with a smile. “Why, Justin, as soon as he came into the room
and I saw his face, I knew that he brought me ‘glad tidings.’ I
naturally thought it was of the victory of Gettysburg, so I told him I
had heard of it that very morning. But when he drew your name into the
conversation, I knew in an instant that you were saved. Oh, Justin, it
was such a shock of joy! But it did not kill me, as it might have done.”

“Yes, it might, my sweet sister, for you look very pale, and thin, and
fragile—not well able to bear a shock of any sort,” said Justin
tenderly.

“Ah, but all is well now. I am happy, so happy, although I weep. You
must not mind my weeping, dear. We women often weep most when we are
happiest, and—ah, yes! Heaven knows, _smile_ most when we are most
wretched!”

“‘Smile most when you are most wretched!’ Where have you learned that
bitter lesson, my sister?” Justin gravely questioned.

“In the hospital, where I have seen the heart-broken mother smiling on
her mutilated or dying boy to keep his spirits up, as long as he should
live.”

“You seem to be very familiar with the wards of the hospitals, my
sister.”

“It is the business, the blessing of my life to be so. But, Justin,
dear, I wish to ask you about Britomarte. You took care of her on the
Desert Island. She saved your life in the sea fight. Ah, how my heart
thrilled to the touch of that story. Now you are betrothed, I hope, and
soon to marry? Oh, Justin, how cordially I would welcome her here as my
sister, and how willingly resign my position as mistress of the house,
in her favor. For the house is yours, you know, Justin, and as your wife
it would be her right.”

Justin slowly shook his head, compressed his lips, and frowned.

“What do you mean by that, my brother?”

“There is no possibility of a marriage between Miss Conyers and myself,”
he said.

“JUSTIN!”

“You know what were Britomarte’s sentiments on the subject of marriage,
or rather of the position of a woman in marriage. And now I have only to
add that all which has happened to us has not been able to work a change
in them.”

“Oh, Justin! I am so sorry!”

“So you see, my dear, there is no chance of your being superseded on the
household throne, for since Britomarte will not be my wife, no other
woman shall.”

“Oh Justin, what a pity. But if she will not be your wife, she shall be
your sister and mine. She shall come here, and share my home and means.”

“She would never do that; she is much too proud to be dependent, even on
those who love and honor her most.”

“Then what will become of her? for oh, Justin, it is whispered
that—that——”

“_What?_” inquired the young man, seeing his sister grow pale and
large-eyed as she paused.

“That—oh, it is too horrible to breathe—that——”

“For Heaven’s sake, speak, Erminie!”

“—The house is the resort of conspirators, who plan—plan—no less a crime
than—than—.” Her voice gradually sank to a whisper, and then stopped
altogether.

“Than what? Speak, my sister; take courage and speak!”

“Oh, I cannot! I cannot! Spare me! it is too horrible!”

“But what house is it to which you allude?”

“Witch Elms.”

“And it is said to be the resort of conspirators, who plan—what?”
persisted Justin.

“I cannot say it. I hope it is all a mere canard. Certainly the civil
and the military authorities have both visited and ransacked the house,
but they have discovered nothing there but what they call ‘the fossil
remains of an old lady and two negroes,’ meaning Miss Pole, the
centenarian aunt of Britomarte, and the two servants.”

“Then the horrible story, whatever it may be, _is_ probably a mere
canard, not worth our attention.”

“But Britomarte! She cannot go there, even if her old relative would
receive her. What will become of her? What can we do for her?”

“We can do many things in this world, but we can do nothing with the
will of a woman like Miss Conyers. We must leave her to the Lord and
herself. And have you lived here quite alone all this time, my poor
Erminie?” said Justin, pityingly.

“Oh, no. I should have told you before, only there was so much to tell
and to hear. Elfrida Fielding is with me. She is a refugee from
Virginia. Her father is with General Meade at Gettysburg. We had a
telegram from him yesterday. He is wounded but not dangerously, and is
coming home on leave.”

“Then they are on the right side.”

“Thank Heaven, yes! But they have suffered very much for their devotion
to the Union; they have had their house burned over their heads by the
Secessionists, and they escaped the flames only through the fidelity of
an old family servant. They have been here ever since. At least this is
Elfie’s home always, and her father’s whenever he comes to see her.”

“That is right, my sister. Let the home of our heroic father be the
refuge of all whom the war has made homeless, and who seek its
threshold. But where is my little friend now? I should be glad to see
her.”

“Immediately on receiving the telegram yesterday, she prepared to go to
Gettysburg to bring her father home. I also was ready to go with her,
when the visit of Mr. Sales with the joyful news of your return stopped
my journey. And so Elfie, after kissing and congratulating, and laughing
and weeping over _me_, and sending what she called ‘lots of love’ to
you, left in the three o’clock train alone.”

While the sister and brother conversed, the time, unheeded, passed away,
and now it was nearly noon, when the door bell rang.

“Oh, I hope that is Britomarte. Did she say she would come early?”
inquired Erminie.

“She said she would come this morning—she did not specify the hour,”
answered Justin, rising to open the drawing-room door.

Britomarte it was, for Justin met her on the threshold, in the act of
being ushered in by Uncle Bob, the old servant of Elfie, who also found
a home at the parsonage.

Justin warmly welcomed Miss Conyers, but was cut short in his
demonstrations by Erminie, who flew to meet her friend, and fell weeping
for joy on Britomarte’s bosom.

“How pale you are, my darling. You have suffered much since I saw you
last,” said Miss Conyers, tenderly caressing Erminie.

“Oh, much! much! How much you do not know or guess. But it is all over
now, dear Britomarte, quite over, now that I see you and Justin safe,
and all is well, now, very well, since the tide of war has turned, and
the invaders are flying before our victorious army,” she answered,
smiling through her tears.

“And do you know what they are saying outside, my darling?” inquired
Miss Conyers, brightly glancing back her smile.

“No! what?” eagerly demanded Erminie.

“Haven’t you been out this morning, Justin?” inquired Miss Conyers,
turning to Mr. Rosenthal.

“No—why?”

“Nor received a visitor?”

“No visitor except yourself.”

“Then I have the happiness to be the first to announce the news to you.
Vicksburg has capitulated!”

“Vicksburg capitulated!” echoed both Justin and Erminie, in a breath.

“The words are in everybody’s mouth. The stars and stripes are waving
from half the windows on the avenue.”

“Oh, Justin, go! go out and learn the particulars, but don’t stay long.
I cannot bear you out of my sight long, lest I should wake up and find
your return all a dream,” urged Erminie.

And Justin, snatching up his hat and gloves, departed.

And Britomarte and Erminie were left together for a long tête-à-tête.
Erminie took Britomarte up into her own bedchamber, and they sat down to
talk. What need to relate their conversation? To do it would be to
repeat all that is already known to the reader of what happened to each
during their long separation. To Britomarte Erminie told the same story
that she had told to Justin, and by her was comforted with the same
tender sympathy she had received from him. And Britomarte answered all
Erminie’s questions concerning the voyage, the wreck, the rescue, the
life on the Desert Island, the deliverance from the place, the cruise of
the Xyphias, the sea fight, the capture of the privateer, and the voyage
home.




                              CHAPTER II.
                         THE VETERAN’S RETURN.

           SIWARD—Had he his hurts before?
           ROSSE—Aye, in the front.
           SIWARD—Why, then, God’s soldier be he!—SHAKSPEARE.


While Erminie and Britomarte talked together, there came a rush of feet
upon the stairs, followed by the flinging open of the chamber door, and
the sudden appearance of Elfie. She sprang at once towards Britomarte,
threw herself upon her bosom, and hugged and kissed her, and laughed and
cried over her.

“But, dear Elfie, how soon you have returned. In twenty-four hours. Why,
you could scarcely have reached your journey’s end. And how did you find
your father? Doing well, I hope, from your joyous looks,” said Erminie,
as soon as she could put in a word.

“Oh! yes, the old boy’s all right! He’s got his right arm in a sling,
and a plaster on both cheeks, and a patch over his left eye—that’s all.
He’s not fit for duty, but he needn’t go to bed before a healthy
Christian’s usual hour of retiring,” answered Elfie, as she recovered
her breath, and threw herself into a chair.

“But how soon you have got back; I don’t understand it,” said Erminie,
returning to the ‘previous question.’

“Don’t you? Well neither do I. All I know is that I came very near
passing my awful old responsibility on the road. When the train stopped
at the Relay House—which you know used to be a comfortable hotel, but is
now turned into something between military headquarters and a beer
garden—I looked out of the window, and there, as sure as you live, stood
my pap, with a lot of dilapidated heroes of the rank and file, on the
platform. I had just time to jump off the car before the train started
again.”

“Oh! Elfie, dear, how rash to jump off the cars just as the train was
about to start!” exclaimed Erminie.

“‘Rash!’ Well, I like that. How could it have been rash?”

“You might have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t, so it couldn’t have been rash. If I had been hurt, then
you might have called it rash; but as I wasn’t, you can only call it
fearless. But I don’t want to talk of myself, but of my ferocious old
governor, who stood there on the platform, bloody, dusty, smoky, bound,
bandaged and plastered, and looking, for all the world, like a
disreputable old prize-fighter that had been considerably damaged in the
ring.”

“But you met him—oh, you met him as the daughter of a hero should meet
her wounded father!” exclaimed Erminie with enthusiasm.

“Which means that I wept over the old boy, and set him to weeping, and
made a melting scene among all those soldiers. Not _much_ I didn’t. I
took him by his whole arm, and turned him round and round until I had
inspected him well, and then I said:

“Oh, you miserable looking old pap. I don’t believe you came from
Gettysburg or any other gallant battle-field. I believe you are fresh
from a fireman’s free fight, or an election riot, where the pretensions
of rival candidates are canvassed with cudgels. Where have you been, and
what doing, to get yourself so dirty, and knocked into such an old
cocked hat?”

“And my old governor laughed, and said that he had been in a dusty
place; that it was very dusty at Gettysburg; and that shot and shell
were flying thick and fast.

“I begged him to have the largest bath-tub in the house filled with hot
water, and to rub himself down from head to foot with soft soap and hard
towels, and put himself in soak for three hours; and I gave him the suit
of clean under-clothes that I had brought along in my carpet bag.

“And though in general paps are very disobedient persons, yet he
promised to obey me, and he kept his word so far as to take a good bath,
while I got up a good dinner for him; and I must confess that he didn’t
look half so badly when he joined me at the dinner table, freshly washed
and newly clothed, with all the smuts and stains I had taken for bruises
and gashes cleansed away. But if all heroes have such heroic appetites
as my heroic pap, I don’t wonder famine so often follows war.”

Britomarte laughed, but Erminie said:

“Men who are fighting cannot stop to feed. He must have fasted long.”

“Long! I should think he had fasted forty days and nights. I told him
so; and he answered that he felt ‘hollow.’ And I couldn’t help saying as
I carved the second fowl for him:

“Pap, I know next to nothing about anatomy and physiology, but from
certain indications I should judge you to be hollow all the way down to
the soles of your boots.”

“Oh, Elfie! how could you?” exclaimed Erminie. “Have you no veneration
at all?”

“Not much. I’m afraid there’s a hole where that bump ought to be. But,
as I said before, I don’t want to talk of myself, but of my glorious old
governor. Well, at that dinner we had a sort of explanation; for you may
be sure, not knowing that I was going on to fetch him, he was as much
astonished at seeing me there as I was at seeing him. So in answer to
his questions, I told him that, knowing very well he wasn’t able to take
care of himself even in the best of times, I had started out with the
intention of bringing him home. And then I demanded to know how it
happened that he should be loafing about the Relay House in such a
disrespectable way; and he told me that, feeling stiff and sore, and
hungry and tired, he had got off at the Relay House with the intention
of resting for the night before going on to Washington. And then the old
fellow got sentimental, and called me his darling child and his brave
girl; but I stopped all that by firing off at him the news of
Britomarte’s and Justin’s resurrection from a ‘watery grave.’ Girls, it
did him more good than all the surgeon’s plasters, and even the bath and
dinner. He felt better immediately, and proposed that we should start
for Washington by the evening train to welcome you back. But of course I
wouldn’t allow that. Instead of letting him go to Washington, I made him
go to bed, and carried him a cup of tea, and read to him all the
evening. It was the full account of the battle of Gettysburg in the
morning paper.”

“But he must have know all about that,” put in Erminie.

“Must he, then? I tell you he was in the thick of the fighting, and yet
he knew nothing or next to nothing of it; at least not one-tenth part as
much as we know, who were not there, yet who read the papers. ‘It was a
dusty place. It was a noisy place. Shot and shell were a flying thick
and fast. I was struck several times, but we whipped the rebels!’ That
was the sum and substance of all the information I could gain from my
warlike pap about the battle; but he listened to the Republican’s long
account of it with the deepest interest, and fell asleep in the midst of
it. I let him sleep, seeing that he was tired out, and knowing that we
would have to continue our journey in the morning.”

“But, Elfie, dear, what have you done with your father now? Let me go to
him; he must feel neglected.”

“Oh, no, he don’t. I took him at once to his bed-room and made him lie
down and rest; and I asked Catherine to take him up a glass of wine and
some biscuits. He’s all right, and will join us at dinner. And now, with
your good leave, I will go to my room and get a little of this dust and
smoke out of my eyes and nose before presenting myself to the Reverend
Justin Rosenthal,” said Elfie, rising.

“Then come to us in the drawing-room, for we are going down there,” said
Erminie.

Elfie nodded assent, and then flew out of the room, singing:

                    “We are coming, Father Abraham,
                    Three hundred thousand more.”

And Erminie and Britomarte went down stairs to the drawing-room, where,
in the course of an hour, they were joined by Elfie, who had renovated
herself with a fresh toilet.

When the three friends were seated together, Britomarte said:

“Here are three of our school quartette; but where is the fourth? Where
is Alberta Goldsborough?”

“Alberta Corsoni, you mean; for she has changed herself from a planter’s
daughter into a bandit’s bride, or a guerrilla’s bride, which amounts to
the same thing,” said Elfie.

“She made her escape from the convent, and eloped with Vittorio Corsoni,
who married her the same night,” said Erminie.

“Yes; and he was a good fellow enough until he married her. He had
embraced the cause of the Union against the rebels. Some people said,
however, that he did so only in opposition to old Mr. Goldsborough, who
had opposed his union with Alberta. However that may be, he certainly
_was_ a Unionist before his marriage. But it seems that Alberta is one
of the most determined female rebels that ever lived; and possessing
immense influence over her lovesick young husband, she won him to the
cause of rebellion; so that now he is one of the most formidable of
those brigand leaders who ravage with fire and sword the shores of the
Potomac and its tributaries,” said Elfie.

“His Italian nature took readily to guerrilla warfare,” sighed Erminie.

“And now he and my traitor are brother bandits, and the best friends in
the world. When either has made a successful raid, he divides the spoils
with the other,” laughed Elfie.

“But what a condition to come back and find my native country in! It
seems to me as if in dream or trance I had lost my footing in the
nineteenth century, and slipped down into the tenth; or as if I had
died, and my spirit had passed into another state of existence. This
change has come gradually upon you, but upon me it has burst like a
thunderbolt. I left the country in smiling peace; I return to find it
groaning under all the horrors of civil war,” said Britomarte, bowing
her head upon her hand in deep thought.

“Britty, stop that! If people go to musing now, they go mad! It is a
time to act, not think!” said Elfie, sharply.

“I know it—I know it—and I shall act!” exclaimed the beautiful amazon.

“Britty, there is one piece of forbearance for which I thank you,” said
Elfie, by way of changing the subject.

“What is that?” inquired Miss Conyers.

“Well, although three years ago you warned Erminie and myself that if we
should have anything to do with the ‘natural enemy’ we should inevitably
come to grief, and although you see that through disregarding your
warning we _have_ come to grief, you magnanimously forbear to say—‘I
told you so!’”

“I do not think that you _have_. I call the treason that divided your
betrothed lovers from your side a very providential thing, so far as
_you_ are concerned. I can mourn over _their_ sins, but not over _your_
escape,” said the man-hater, firmly.

“Yet it hurt some, at the time,” said Elfie, raising her eyebrows;
“though I wouldn’t admit that to anybody else but yourself, Britty, it
_did_ hurt, didn’t it, Minie?”

Erminie covered her face with her hands, and wept softly.

“It hurts still, you see,” whispered Elfie. “Oh, I hope—I do hope—the
next shell that flies into Charleston will cut that fellow in two! As
for my traitor, being a guerrilla, I trust that neither shell nor shot
will cheat the gallows of its dues.” And Elfie indignantly dashed away
the tears that dared to sparkle in her own eyes.

“I am a very weak woman. I must get up and go to the hospital. I should
have gone an hour ago. Britomarte, will you come with me?” said Erminie,
rising, and wiping her eyes.

“Yes, with pleasure,” said Miss Conyers. “Do you go every day?”

“Twice every day, in order to visit as many as I can. I go in the
forenoon, return to dinner, and then go again in the afternoon. And,
after all, so many are the hospitals, and so thickly are they crowded,
that I can only visit each patient about twice a week, and then how I
wish I could be in twenty wards at the same time. You must help me in
the hospitals, Britomarte dear. _There is so much to do._ And when one
has devoted all her time and strength and means to the work, and happily
eased the sufferings of some scores, there are hundreds of others
needing the same help.”

“I hope all our women are doing their duty in this crisis,” said Miss
Conyers.

“They are doing what they can; but wives and mothers have very little
time, and very little means either, in these war days, to bestow upon
the poor soldiers; and young girls are generally inadmissible to the
hospitals except at certain stated hours. Me—for some reason or other,
perhaps for my respectable black dress and sedate aspect—the surgeons
admit at any hour. And heaven has blessed me with ample means and ample
leisure to devote to the sick and wounded soldiers.”

“Yours is an angel’s mission, my Minie; and you are worthy to be
entrusted with it. You have been weighed in the balance, and not found
wanting; you have passed through the fiery furnace of affliction, and
come forth pure gold; you have been tried and found faithful; and you
have been called to a much higher and holier destiny than would have
been yours as the wife of——”

“Oh, don’t! don’t, Britomarte!” exclaimed Erminie, shrinking even from
this light touch upon her unhealed wound.

Then reverting to the subject which they had first spoken, she said:

“It is a great school for the spirit—this to which I go. Volumes,
libraries could not contain its lessons. Let one give all her time,
strength and means to the sufferers there, and she will still _receive_
more—infinitely more—than she gives.”

“In——”

“In the examples of almost superhuman patience, cheerfulness and
fortitude among those brave men, who, wounded, mutilated, agonized, will
never utter a complaint, will give you smile for smile, and receive with
thankfulness any little gift the surgeons will allow you to offer them.
Oh! how light seem my own troubles when I look upon theirs!”

“We may judge what their courage in the fields must have been by their
fortitude in the hospital,” said Miss Conyers.

“Oh, Britomarte, yes! Ah! if you were to go with me on my rounds among
these true heroes, from a man-hater you would become a man-worshipper,
Britomarte. And then the extremes of youth and age that we find there!
The law has limited compulsory military service to the men between the
ages of eighteen and forty-five; but true patriotism draws no such line.
My dear father was sixty-one years old when he fell in front of his men
on the field of Manassas. In one regiment that I know of there was a
grandfather of sixty-three, his two sons of forty and forty-two, and
four grandsons between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.”

“That was glorious!” exclaimed Miss Conyers, with enthusiasm.

“And Britomarte, as I live, I found in the Water’s Ware-House Hospital
of Georgetown, a boy about twelve years old, who had been brought in
among the last lot of wounded from the battle-field of Manassas! When I
expressed astonishment and pity, I was told that there were boys of
twelve who were soldiers of the line! And since then I have learned
beyond all question that such is the fact!”

“Oh, Erminie! if what you tell me is true, as I have no doubt that it
is, what a race of heroes the women of America have brought forth!”
exclaimed Miss Conyers, with all the enthusiasm of her soul shining in
her eyes.

“I thought you would grow into a man-worshipper, Britomarte,” said
Erminie, smiling.

“And _I_ thought she would contrive to turn over all the glory to the
women, where, of course, it justly belongs, as she has done!” exclaimed
Elfie, saucily, quoting—“What a race of heroes the women of America have
brought forth!”

“Come, let us put on our bonnets and go to the Douglas Hospital,” said
Erminie.

But just at that moment the bell rang, and the next instant the door
opened and Justin entered the drawing-room, accompanied by Lieutenant
Ethel.

Elfie sprang up to greet her old acquaintance, but dropped into her seat
again on seeing a stranger.

Justin advanced and warmly shook hands with his little friend, and with
Britomarte, and then he brought up Lieutenant Ethel and presented him to
the party.

“I am very glad to see you, sir; and I have to thank you very earnestly
for your great kindness to my brother and friends in their extremity,”
said Erminie.

The young officer bowed lowly before the beautiful, pale girl, who thus
addressed him, and he replied:

“It will now be a much greater pleasure to me than ever, to remember
that I was able to be of some slight service to your friends, Miss
Rosenthal.”

“I trust that you will give us some opportunity of proving our gratitude
to you, Mr. Ethel. My brother informs me that your duties will detain
you here in Washington for some days or weeks. I hope that you will
gratify us by making our quiet house your home during the period of your
stay,” said Erminie.

“A thousand thanks, Miss Rosenthal! But my domestication in this lovely
home would be much too great a tax upon your kindness, and very much too
great a happiness for my merits,” said the young officer.

“I assure you it would give us sincere pleasure to have you,” urged
Erminie.

“Ethel shall stay just where he is, Erminie. Give yourself no further
trouble to press him. I was his guest for many weeks, and he shall be
mine for many days, at least. Oh, I haven’t consulted him on the
subject. I knew it would be useless. I ordered his man Martin to pack up
his effects and bring them over here this afternoon. So, sister, you may
have a room made ready for the lieutenant, and a hammock swung somewhere
for the seaman—or lacking a hammock, an ordinary cot and mattress will
do,” said Justin.

“Oh, Rosenthal,” began the young officer.

“Hold your tongue, Ethel! You’re not on your quarterdeck now! I’m
commander of _this_ ship, and I mean to be obeyed!” exclaimed Justin.

“But you will allow me to say——”

“Not a syllable against dropping your anchor in this harbor.”

“Well, I won’t! I was only about to observe that I used to hear Judith
threaten her ‘gay Tom’ to make him do as he liked! You are only making
me do as I like,” said the young lieutenant, with a bow to Erminie.

“And now let us talk about something else! Young ladies, this is a great
holiday! To-night there is to be a brilliant illumination, in honor of
the two great victories of Gettysburg and Vicksburg. I have ordered in
several pounds of wax-candles, which, when they come, you will have cut
into the proper lengths. I have also spoken to a carpenter to come and
fix holders for the lights at the windows. You can send a servant with
him through the rooms,” said Justin.




                              CHAPTER III.
                     JUSTIN ENLISTS.—ELFIE DRILLS.

          Sound, sound the clarion—fill, fill the fife!
            To all the sensual world proclaim,
          One crowded hour of glorious strife
            Is worth an age without a name!
          ’Twas bustle in the street below—
          “Forward! march!” and forth they go.
          Steeds neigh and trample all around—
          Steel rings, spears glitter, trumpets sound!—SCOTT.


Young Ethel remained the honored guest of the old parsonage. He had been
relieved of the command of the Sea Scourge and promoted to the rank of
first lieutenant, and he was now waiting orders.

Major Fielding also, while recovering from his wounds, made the
parsonage his home.

But neither arguments nor entreaties could induce Miss Conyers to profit
by the large-hearted hospitality of the Rosenthals, and take up even a
temporary residence under their roof. She found cheap board in a
respectable private family, on the suburbs, near the parsonage, and she
visited her friends very often, and went every day with Erminie to the
hospitals.

Justin, very soon after his return home, made known his intention of
enlisting as a private soldier in the army.

This announcement filled the heart of his sister with dismay. All the
latent pride in the gentle bosom of the Lutheran minister’s meek child
arose in arms. In her own person, so deep was her humility of love, she
would have stooped to the most menial office by which she could serve
her country, or one of its lowliest defenders; but for her idolized
brother she was more ambitious, and she could not endure the thought of
the hardships, privations and humiliations he would have to suffer as a
soldier in the ranks.

“Do try to get a captain’s commission in one of the new regiments now
being filled up. You and your friends have influence enough to secure
one; you know it, Justin,” she urged.

“But, my Minie, I know no more of the science of military tactics than I
do of the art of alchemy,” laughed Justin.

“What of that? Are not lawyers’ clerks, doctors’ boys, counter-jumpers,
barbers, bar-tenders, penny-a-liners, and all sorts of men, who know no
more of the science of war than you do, daily turned into commissioned
officers—captains, majors, colonels, and even brigadier-generals?”
rather impatiently demanded Erminie.

“And hence the defeats that attended our arms during the first two years
of the war. No, Erminie; I am not so presumptuous as to apply for even a
second lieutenancy, while conscious that I know nothing of tactics,”
said Justin, seriously.

“Oh, but you can learn. There are no end to the works on military
tactics. You meet them staring you in the face from every bookseller’s
window, and find them lumbering up every counter where the new novels
used to be displayed.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I could not begin to tell you how many there are; but two of them I
remember—Casey’s Infantry Tactics and Hardee’s ditto; each in three
pretty volumes, that look for all the world like song-books—little mites
of volumes, that a hard student like you could master in a week.”

“I dare say,” said Justin, smiling; “and at the end of a week I should
be very competent to drill a company, manœuvre a regiment, or fight a
battle—_on paper_!”

“Oh, nonsense, brother! don’t be sarcastic. I tell you it is all easy
enough. I began reading the first volume of Hardee myself, and I assure
you I feel equal to the simple regimental drill. Now do, Justin, study
tactics for an examination for a captain’s commission in one of the new
regiments.”

“My good little sister, tactics cannot be learned from books comfortably
conned in the chimney corner. They must be learned on the parade ground
and on the battle-field.”

“But I cannot _bear_ that you, with your scholarly intellect and refined
habits should be a common soldier, Justin! I cannot bear it!” said
Erminie, almost ready to cry.

“My Minie! for ages to come the children of the ‘common soldiers’ who
fight in this war for the Union will look back upon their forefathers
with more just pride than ever did the sons of kings upon their royal
ancestry.”

“I know it, Justin! But, in the meantime, the association! Why, the rank
and file of our army are made up of all sorts of men!” pleaded Erminie.

“My sister, your experience among the wounded soldiers in the hospitals
must have taught you that there are as noble men and true gentlemen in
the rank and file of our army as any that ever wore the stars of a
major-general,” said Justin, very gravely.

“I know it! oh, I know it! Heaven forgive me for my pride; for while you
spoke I thought of Grandison, a Frenchman, who died after many months of
suffering in the Trinity Church hospital in Georgetown. He was one of
the most accomplished scholars and polished gentlemen I ever met
anywhere, not even excepting his countrymen the Orleans princes whom I
met at the President’s reception. Heaven forgive me for saying anything
in disparagement of the common soldier!” said Erminie, meekly, as her
brown eyes filled with tears at the remembrance of the dying soldier
whose death-bed she had smoothed.

“And you will oppose my plan no longer, my sister?” inquired Justin,
caressing her.

“No longer,” she murmured in reply.

So Justin went and enlisted in a new regiment that was being formed to
go into active service.

And his sister saw no more of him for a week, at the end of which he
re-appeared at the parsonage with his fine auburn hair cropped close to
his head and surmounted by the soldier’s cap, and his athletic form
displayed to the very best advantage in the round blue jacket and
trowsers of the private’s uniform.

The three young ladies were alone in the drawing-room when he was
ushered in in this dress.

Half laughing and half crying, Erminie sprang to welcome him.

With visible emotion Britomarte also offered him her hand.

And Elfie openly expressed her opinion:

“Justin, you were cut out for a common soldier! I never saw you look so
well in my life. But then the closefitting uniform of a private
certainly does show off ‘a fine figure of a man,’ as no other dress in
the world could. Somehow or other, I think of a gladiator, and of an
Apollo, and the Colossus of Rhodes, when I look at you in that tight
fit, Mr. Rosenthal.”

“Miss Fielding, I am your slave and your knight. Were it permitted in
the ranks, I would pin your glove upon my cap for a feather and bear it
through the battle-field to certain victory!” said Justin, laughing and
bowing.

“No, don’t! Britomarte would put a spider in my dumplin!”

“ELFIE!” indignantly exclaimed Miss Conyers.

“You _know_ you’d poison me if I should dare to—hem—be a friend of
Justin’s! Oh, I know! I’ve read the story of the dog in the manger! how
the dog couldn’t eat the hay and wouldn’t let the heifer eat it!”
laughed the girl.

“You are privileged to jest roughly, I suppose,” said Miss Conyers,
coldly.

“I know I am,” admitted Elfie—“privileged to do everything but flirt
with Justin. If I was to dare to do _that_—hush, girls! you know how
Britty can hate _men_, but you will never know how she can hate women
until some unlucky woman gives Justin her glove to wear in his
cap!—Mercy! there, I’ve done!” exclaimed Elfie, shrinking from
Britomarte’s flashing eyes. “And now we’ll change the subject. Justin,
_mon brave_! you look very clean and very nice; your tight suit is such
a clear bright blue, and your shirt-collar is as white as the driven
snow; but, Justin, _mon ami_, can you _keep_ clean over there in camp?
that is the question! or, when you come to see us, shall we have to put
you in soak over night before we can breakfast with you next morning?”

“The river flows below our fort, and the sutlers keep a good supply of
brown soap and crash towels, so I have hopes to be able to keep out of
the category of the ‘unwashed!’” said the volunteer.

“I am very glad to hear it. For as far as my observation goes, there
seems to be the most intimate relationship, and an inevitable
connection, between dirt and glory. Why, even my pap, in speaking of the
victorious field of Gettysburg, could only describe it as a ‘very dusty’
place.”

As Justin was obliged to be back at his camp before the hour of
“tattoo,” he could stay but a few minutes with his friends. He soon
arose, took an affectionate leave of them, and went away.

After this they saw but little of him at the parsonage.

And when Erminie wished to see her brother, she had to get a pass from
the provost marshal’s office, and cross the river, and visit him in
camp, in one of the forts of the lines forming the southern defences of
Washington.

All this time Major Fielding passed his days reclining in an easy chair
under the shade of the vine-wreathed porch, reading, smoking, and
recruiting his strength.

Young Ethel went every day to the Navy Department, with which he seemed
to have a great deal of business.

Britomarte and Erminie went daily to the hospitals, with kind words and
good gifts to the soldiers.

And what was Elfie doing? For one thing, she was making great havoc in
the heart of the young lieutenant, who had been, from the first,
fascinated by her elfin charms, and for another thing, by the
mysteriousness and eccentricity of her appearance and deportment, she
was exciting all manner of disagreeable conjectures concerning herself
among her surrounding friends.

She was not encouraging her young adorer; far from it, she was snubbing
him in the most contemptuous manner possible, by either ignoring his
offered attentions entirely, or else repelling them carelessly, as she
would have brushed off a troublesome fly.

She grew moody, silent and unsocial. She studied Casey’s Tactics all day
long, except for an hour in the morning, which she spent in drilling.
She borrowed her father’s rifle, and went through the exercises with it,
while the quiet drawing-room of the parsonage echoed with “the accents
of an unknown tongue.”

“_Shoale-dore_—HUMS! _Pre-sent_—HUMS! _Shoale-dore_—HUMS!”

“For you see, Britty, I notice that the drill officer on parade don’t
say ‘shoulder,’ but ‘shoale-dore!’ nor ‘arms,’ but ‘hums!’ and I want to
be right by drill and not dictionary,” Elfie explained to Miss Conyers,
who sat watching her performance in amazement.

“But Elfie, my dear, why do you go through all this!” she inquired.

“Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” mocked Elfie, trailing arms and panting
for breath.

“Yes, I do!” said Miss Conyers, gravely.

“But I won’t.—Dear me, this rifle is very heavy,” said Elfie, as she set
the arms up in a corner, and threw herself into an easy chair to recover
her breath; “I do wonder why the government don’t have lighter ones
made, such as might be handled easily by a boy of fifteen—”

“Or a girl of twenty,” murmured Britomarte, looking wistfully at Major
Fielding’s daughter.

“—I am sure they have enough of such boys in the army—”

“—And a few of such girls,” murmured Miss Conyers thoughtfully.

“And I don’t wonder the poor lads drop exhausted on the march, carrying
such heavy rifles.”

“Or that the poor lasses sometimes break down and get found out.”

“I wish to goodness they would make lighter ones; I’m sure it would pay
to do it.”

“So do I; I think so, too,” murmured Miss Conyers.

“Britomarte, why do you sit there whispering to yourself like a wicked
enchantress muttering her incantations? What are you saying or
thinking?” irritably questioned Elfie.

“I am thinking, Elfie, from what I see, that you are contemplating
enlistment; and Elfie, I will not be the one to discourage you provided
you have your father’s consent,” said Miss Conyers, earnestly.

“Yes; but I haven’t got it, and I couldn’t get it. At the mere mention
of the thing the dear old boy raised such a row as never was. Blest if I
didn’t think he’d raise the other Old Boy from the place below, you
know. No, Britty, I am not dreaming of enlisting.”

“Well, then, what _are_ you dreaming of?”

“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Indeed I should. What is it, Elfie?”

“Why, that’s the mystery; but it may come out in a few days, as the
doctor said of the measles, or the cat of the mouse, I forget which.”

“Elfie, what _are_ you talking of, love? Mystery, measles, mouse—what do
you mean?”

“When does the draft come off?” inquired Elfie, without answering
Britomarte’s question.

“Next week.”

“Then next week you will find out what I mean.”

“How?”

“That’s all.”

And that was all, for not another word of explanation could Britomarte
get from Elfie.

The next morning after this conversation, Justin paid one of his rare
visits to the parsonage.

He informed his sister that he was promoted to the rank of corporal, and
laughingly pointed to the chevrons on his sleeves.

Major Fielding, who was much better, and was expecting to be ordered to
his regiment, chuckled as he congratulated Corporal Rosenthal.

“Your promotion is the second step up the ladder of military fame, on
which your enlistment was the first step. And let me remind you, my boy,
that half the greatest generals the world has ever known were men who
rose from the ranks. Why, Lord bless my soul, boy, I myself enlisted as
a private soldier, and see where I am now,” said the major, with a
little pardonable egotism.

“Good gracious, pap, that was two years ago! If Justin rises no faster
than you did, the war will be over before he is a drill sergeant,” said
Elfie.

“Yes; but he will rise faster, daught’. Young men can rise faster, as
well as run faster, than old ones. You see with me there were drawbacks,
daught’. For one thing, I wasn’t tip-top at the double-quick!”

“Except in retreat, pap!”

“Hush, you saucy imp!”

“But, in any case,” sighed Erminie, “Justin’s promotion must be very
tedious.”

“Not at all,” said the major. “He will rise as fast as he learns. A
young man like our volunteer here is not going to be overlooked in the
lines. He will be promoted as fast as possible. The regiment is not
filled up yet, you know. New companies are being formed. And I will
guarantee, before the regiment marches, Justin will have received his
captain’s commission.”

“Heaven send it!” aspirated Erminie.

“Dear sister, and good friends,” said Justin, earnestly, “I beg you to
understand that I did not enter the army to seek my own advancement, but
to do my duty to my country.”

“I know that, Justin,” said Erminie—“know it well; but——”

“Advancement will be your destiny whether you seek it or not,” said the
major.

As time was up, and Justin had to be back in camp by the evening roll
call, he took leave of his sister and friends and departed.

The prophecies of Major Fielding were fulfilled. Justin rose rapidly
from the ranks. The next time he visited his sister, he wore the badge
of a sergeant upon his sleeves. And he delighted Erminie with the
announcement that the colonel of his regiment had notified him that he
should have a lieutenant’s commission in a company that was then being
formed of new recruits, and had also hinted at still further
advancement.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                          THE SOLDIER’S LOVE.

                ’Tis often in the parting hour,
                Victorious love asserts his power
                    O’er coldness and disdain;
                For flinty is her heart can view
                To battle march her lover true.
                Can hear perchance his last adieu,
                Nor own her share of pain.—WALTER SCOTT.


At length the draft commenced, and the city was in a pretty state of
excitement. There were hundreds of youths who had been withheld by the
authority of parents or the persuasions of friends from volunteering,
but who were now in great hopes of being drafted and “made to do as they
liked.” And there were hundreds of men whose health had never been known
to suffer before, but who now suddenly fell ill of grievous disorders.
Never—no, never since the cholera of ‘32, had the city been so sickly.
Never were so many people at one time affected with so many aches and
pains. It was as if Pandora’s box had been then and there opened for the
first time, and all the maladies to which flesh is heir had been sown
broadcast over the district. And never had there been such deplorable
destitution; never so many only grandmothers, widowed mothers, orphaned
sisters and motherless children dependent upon men for support.

But what else could be expected?

All, or nearly all, the heroes had volunteered long before the
enrollment; and the men who did not were either serving humanity in some
other way, or else lacked the power or the will to serve their country.

But in all the excited multitude not one was more excited than our
Elfie.

Every morning when the paper came, she was the first to seize it; and
she would let her coffee grow cold while she read out the list of
drafted men to the company at the breakfast table.

And on the day on which the draft for _her_ sub-district was to come
off, Elfie was very nearly beside herself. She could not be easy for one
moment. She rambled all over the house and grounds in the most restless
manner. She drilled a little while, and then she threw aside her rifle
and re-commenced her rambles. She bought every edition of the evening
papers, extras and all, and read the list of the drafted men; but at the
very latest issue the list was incomplete, and Elfie was discontented.

In the morning she was the first one down stairs, watching for the early
paper. It came, and the list was complete. But on this occasion, for the
first time, Elfie omitted to read it aloud, and apparently no one had
interest enough in the subject to try their eyes over the diamond type.
But Elfie, who had been insane herself with anxiety on the preceding
day, seemed mad with exultation on this. She laughed at everything and
at nothing. She sang and danced all over the house, and drilled more
than ever.

“Really, Elfie,” said Erminie, “one would think that yesterday you had
been in an agony of suspense lest some favorite brother or friend should
be drafted, and that to-day you are in an ecstacy of joy on perceiving
that he has escaped. What ails you dear?”

“Never mind, you’ll soon see.

                    ‘We are coming, Father Abraham,
                    _Five_ hundred thousand more,’”

replied Elfie, singing and dancing out of the room.

In two or three days they _did_ know. It was one morning after
breakfast.

Major Fielding had walked out for the first time since he was wounded.

Miss Conyers had just dropped in for a morning call.

Erminie, Elfie, Britomarte and Lieutenant Ethel were assembled in the
drawing-room, discussing the one great topic of the day, the very last
battle, when there came a ring at the bell, followed by the entrance of
Uncle Bob, bringing a large, formidable-looking letter, and gazing
around in perplexity, as doubting to whom to deliver it.

“Penny pos’, Miss,” he said at length, appealing to the young mistress
of the house.

But Elfie sprang up and darted past every one, and seized the letter,
exclaiming:

“It is for me!”

“For _you_, Elfie? _That_ letter!” said Erminie, in incredulous
surprise.

“Yes; if you doubt it look at it!” replied Elfie, triumphantly, turning
the back of the letter to the whole group, so that each one could read
its superscription.

It was a long, large, yellow envelope, bearing on its upper-right-hand
corner the words: PROVOST MARSHAL’S OFFICE. _Official Business._
Directed to Sydney Fielding.

And exclamations of wonder broke from all present.

“It cannot be for you, Elfie. It is from the Provost Marshal’s office,
and on official business. You can have no official business with the
Provost Marshal, my dear,” said Erminie.

“Can’t I?” mocked Elfie.

“But what business _can_ you have?”

“You’ll hear presently—

        ‘We are coming! we are coming! our Union to restore——’”

“Elfie, dear, _do_ stop singing, and be reasonable. This letter is
directed to Sydney Fielding. There must be a mistake. Sydney Fielding!”

“Well, what is _my_ name? Isn’t it Elfrida Sydney Fielding!”

“Yes; but——”

“Just so. The Elfrida’s left out. I had it left out on purpose. Not that
I intend to claim exemption on that account, like the poltroon Jonson,
who tried to get off on the ground that the enrolling officer had spelt
his name wrong, naturally writing it ‘Johnson.’ This summons is directed
to Sydney Fielding, which means me, Elfrida Sydney Fielding, since there
is no other Sydney Fielding in existence, and I shall respond to it.”

“Summons! Enrolling officer! Whatever do you mean, Elfie?” inquired
Erminie, in growing amazement, which was fully shared by young Ethel.

As for Britomarte, she seemed to know, or guess, the meaning of the
whole affair.

“Wait a minute!” said Elfie, breaking the broad seal, and reading the
letter, which was half print and half manuscript.

Her companions watched her impatiently.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, jumping up and singing: “‘We are coming, we
are coming, our Union to restore!’”

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! are you quite distracted?” exclaimed Erminie, in
distress.

“No, my dear, I am not ‘distracted;’ I am only _drafted_!” said Elfie.

“Drafted!” exclaimed all, in a breath.

“Yes, drafted, friends and fellow citizens!”

“Elfie, you _are_ crazed,” said Erminie.

“No, not ‘crazed’—_conscripted_! You always hit upon the right initial,
but not on the right word!” replied Elfie.

“You do not mean to say, in sober earnest, that you are _drafted_, Miss
Fielding? Such a thing was never heard of! Women have enlisted, and have
served; but always when disguised as men. I never in my life heard of a
woman being drafted. Such an event would be impossible,” said Lieutenant
Ethel.

“‘Impossible!’ Lor!” mocked Elfie. “Are you so young and green as not to
know impossible things constantly happen? And here is the proof in black
and white.”

“If that document is the official summons of a drafted man, it proves
beyond a doubt that it was never intended for you,” urged the young
officer.

“For whom then?” mockingly inquired Elfie.

“Why, of course, for some individual who was enrolled under that name.”

“All right! I was the individual enrolled under that name.”

“You, Elfie!” exclaimed all her companions, in a breath.

“Yes—I, Elfie. Now, if you will all stop exclaiming and gesticulating,
I’ll explain.”

“Do so, then.”

“Well, you know, last June, when the enrolling officers were going
round?”

“Yes,” said Erminie.

“The day they came here no one was at home but myself and the servants.
You, Erminie, were at the hospitals, and my pap was with General Hooker.
So I was keeping house that morning, when there came a peremptory ring
at the bell. Old Bob, as usual, answered it, and then came to me with a
scared face, saying there were two ‘ossifer gemmen’ at the door, asking
for the head of the family.”

“Well?”

“I was the vice-head, and so I went out to see what was wanted. There
stood the two enrolling officers, with the big books and stumpy pens. I
knew what they were at a glance. They looked tired and heated that warm
summer day, so I invited them to sit down and rest in that cool, shady
porch, which they did; when this sort of talk came off:

“‘How many male adults are there belonging to this house?’ inquired the
spokesman.

“‘Three or four in all,’ I said.

“‘Name them if you please.’

“‘First, then, there is the Reverend Justin Rosenthal.’

“He began to take that name down.

“‘But then he sailed for India two years ago, and it is feared he is
lost at sea,’ I went on.

“He stayed his hand, and looked annoyed, but then said:

“‘Go on. Who else?’

“‘Well, then there is Benoni Fielding.’

“Away he went scribbling at that name.

“‘He is with General Hooker’s army,’ I continued.

“He snatched up his hand impatiently, exclaiming:

“‘Then of course we don’t want his name. Who else?’

“‘Robert Snowflake,’ I answered.

“Off he started scribbling again.

“‘He is an African gentleman, aged seventy, the same old man who opened
the door for you,’ I added.

“Again his hand was arrested, and he inquired, half angrily:

“‘Well, is there any one else in the house?’

“‘Yes,’ I said—‘there is Sydney Fielding.’

“‘Well, before I take that name down I must be sure that he is not lost
at sea.’

“‘No,’ I answered.

“‘Nor serving with General Hooker?’

“‘No.’

“‘Nor yet an African gentleman aged seventy?’

“‘No,’ I assured him; ‘Sydney Fielding is at present at home, and not in
the service, is white, is twenty years old, and sound in mind and body.’

“‘He’ll do, then, beyond the least doubt!’ exclaimed the enrolling
officer, entering the name of Sydney Fielding on his list. Then he
inquired:

“‘Is there any other male adult in the house?’

“I answered, ‘No—not one.’

“And he shut up his book, and asked me the favor of a cool drink of
water, which Uncle Bob brought him. When he and his companion had drank
their fill, they thanked me and went away. And that’s all,” said Elfie,
with a sigh of relief.

“Well, I declare I never heard such a story in my life!” exclaimed
Erminie, while Lieutenant Ethel looked grave, and Britomarte seemed
amused.

“Now see here, friends,” said Elfie, as if she were upon her defence, “I
told no fibs to the enrolling officer—not one. If he enrolled me it was
all his doings, not mine. You know they are a very suspicious set, those
enrollers. They are always suspecting us of suppressing the name of some
favorite friend or relative, to keep him from catching cold in the
draft.”

“They have often just cause for suspicion,” said young Ethel.

“Be that as it may, these officers must have suspected me of suppressing
some name. For when I had cited every male creature belonging to the
premises, he persisted in inquiring if there was ‘any one else?’ Mind,
he didn’t say any _man_, but any ‘_one_.’ So I was able to answer, ‘Yes,
there was Sydney Fielding.’ And thinking only of men, he took it for
granted that Sydney Fielding was the name of a man, and enrolled it
accordingly.”

“It was a practical joke on your part, of course, Elfie, but you can
carry it no farther. You will either take no notice of this summons, or
you will get your father to take it up to the Provost Marshal’s office
and explain,” said Erminie, gravely.

“Indeed I shall do neither one nor the other. I shall just obey the
summons by walking up to the Provost Marshal’s office and reporting
myself.”

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! But your father will never permit you to take such an
extraordinary step,” exclaimed Erminie in dismay.

“I shan’t stop to consult him. I shall promptly obey peremptory orders.
I shall go up and report for duty. I have been regularly enrolled,
regularly drafted, and I shall regularly report.”

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! how shocking!”

“Why, see here. I _must_. I don’t come under any one of the heads of
exemption. I know that much. I am not an alien, nor an invalid, nor an
idiot. I am not under eighteen or over forty-five. I am neither the only
son of my grandmother, nor am I the father of fourteen small motherless
children, and one at the breast. In short, I cannot put in even the
smallest of the numerous pleas by which the cowards cry off from serving
their country. I am a native born citizen of the United States, aged
twenty years, sound in mind and body, wind and limb, single, and with no
one but my country depending on me for support.”

And so saying, Elfie jumped up and danced out of the room to the tune of
“Rally round the flag, boys! rally once again!”

“_Will_ she be so mad as to act upon that summons?” inquired young
Ethel, in consternation.

Britomarte laughed. Erminie sighed. Neither could answer his question.

To the confusion of all her friends, Elfie _did_ act upon that summons.
When Erminie went in search of her to try to persuade her to abandon her
wild project, Elfie was no where to be found.

Britomarte and Erminie went their morning rounds of the hospitals, and
returned home to dinner. But Elfie did not appear. Neither, luckily, did
her father. The two friends went out again on their afternoon rounds,
and returned to tea. They found Major Fielding walking up and down on
the porch. He greeted the young ladies cordially, and apologized for his
unexpected absence from the dinner table by explaining that he had met a
brother officer, who had carried him off to dine at Willard’s. Then he
inquired:

“Where is my girl? I haven’t seen her since I came home.”

“She is in her room, perhaps,” answered Erminie, uneasily, but hoping
earnestly that Elfie might be found there.

Erminie hurried into the house, and up stairs to Elfie’s chamber, where,
sure enough, she found the girl, with her bonnet and shawl thrown
carelessly upon the floor, and herself sitting down on the sofa,
sulking.

“Oh, Elfie, dearest, I am so glad to see you back again. We have been so
anxious about you all day. Where have you been, darling?” exclaimed
Erminie, going towards her.

“Where have I been? To the Provost Marshal’s office, of course.”

“Oh, my dear!”

“Yes, I have. But would you believe it, Erminie? they wouldn’t accept
me. No, they wouldn’t, although I told them all that I told you, and
proved to them that I didn’t come under any one of the heads of
exemption, and that I was both willing and able to serve my country. No;
for all I could say they wouldn’t accept me.”

“My dear, did you really expect that they would?” inquired Erminie in
astonishment.

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t. It’s all bosh about my being a woman. I
tell you, Erminie, a healthy young woman is quite as well able to
perform military duty as most men are, and much more able than the mere
boys they are constantly mustering into the ranks. I put that all to
them. But they laughed at me—they did, the narrow-minded old fogies!”

“My dear, it was the most indulgent manner in which they could have
treated your bad joke,” gravely replied Erminie.

“Joke? I never was more in earnest in my life. I did my duty. But they
didn’t do theirs. And mind, Erminie, I didn’t abandon my point very
easily. I didn’t until they sent me away from the office.”

“Well, I hope here is an end of the whole absurd affair, my dear Elfie.
And I am very glad that your good father has not been vexed by hearing
of it.”

“But here is _not_ an end of it. Erminie, I mean either to serve in the
army, as some women are doing at this present moment, or I will furnish
a substitute in some able bodied alien.”

“Then, darling, as your father is well off in means, notwithstanding his
great losses, I see no objection to your furnishing a substitute, though
you are not obliged to do so. I myself have a representative in the
field.”

“_You_, Erminie!”

“Yes, dear, and I think it the duty of every wealthy and independent
woman in the country to have a representative in the army. But come,
your father is waiting for you, Elfie. And tea is ready. Let us go to
it.”

The two girls rose to leave the room.

“Dear Elfie, pray do not speak of this vexatious subject before your
father this evening. This, you know, is his first day out. He has made a
long one of it, and he looks tired; so let him have his tea in peace,”
said Erminie, as they went down stairs.

“All right. I’ll not say anything to spoil the dear old boy’s digestion
or disturb his night’s rest.”

“‘Old boy!’ Oh, Elfie! to speak of your father so! How I wish you had a
little more veneration!”

“So do I; but as I haven’t, what’s the use of talking? May be though
honest affection isn’t a bad substitute.”

“And you have that, Elfie dear, certainly. Here we are,” said Erminie,
opening the back hall door leading out on the lawn, where, under the
shade of a spreading horse chestnut tree, the neat tea table was set.

Britomarte, Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel were already out there.

Young Ethel started with delight on seeing Elfie; but Erminie raised her
finger in a warning manner, and he subsided into quietness. Not a word
was said about Elfie’s adventure. They sat down at the table.

Erminie poured out the tea. The major gave a description of the friends
he had met at an early dinner at Willard’s. And he spoke of his
approaching departure to join his regiment.

Lieutenant Ethel announced his own appointment to the command of the
gunboat “Thunderbolt,” then lying off the Navy Yard.

While they were still at the table the garden gate opened and Justin
entered, smiling.

They all arose eagerly to welcome him. He shook hands with Britomarte
and Elfie, and with the two gentlemen, and kissed his sister, and then
drew a chair to the table, where room was speedily made for him.

“Why, he wears the captain’s straps!” exclaimed Elfie, in delight.

“Yes,” smiled Justin, “I have my company at last, Elfie.”

“But you said nothing about it!”

“I wanted to see whether you would notice the straps without my pointing
them out.”

“Well, I declare!—Ladies and gentlemen I have the honor to present to
you—Captain Rosenthal!” said Elfie, solemnly.

“I saw your new straps, Justin dear—I saw them at once. What change
could take place in you that I should not see?” said Erminie, in a low
voice.

“I understood you, my sister,” murmured Justin. Then he turned his eyes
on Britomarte.

She met the glance and answered gravely:

“When you are promoted for services rendered on the battle-field,
Justin, then I will congratulate you.”

Captain Rosenthal bowed in silence.

“Certainly; what have we all been thinking of? He has risen from the
ranks without ever having been under fire; he has been advanced upon the
small merits of keeping himself clean and minding his drill. Bosh! When
you have seen twenty well-fought fields and come to us with one arm and
both legs off and the stars of a major-general on, then we’ll make much
of you,” said Elfie.

“Oh, how cruel!” murmured Erminie.

“No, they are not cruel, my sister. They are right,” said Justin.
“Promotion is best earned in the battle-field, where I shall soon seek
it. Though I hope to bring back a limb or two more than Elfie would
leave me.”

“Yes—I hope so too; for she would literally leave you not a leg to stand
upon!” exclaimed Major Fielding heartily.

Justin then announced that the brigade to which his regiment belonged
was now ready for service, and was hourly expecting marching orders.

And when tea was over he took leave and departed.

It was not until the next morning, at the breakfast table, that Major
Fielding discovered his daughter’s escapade. Now that the draft was
over, Elfie no longer read the papers aloud while others breakfasted. So
Major Fielding had the morning paper in his hand, leisurely looking over
it while he sipped his coffee.

Suddenly he set down his cup with emphasis, and nearly let out an oath.

Erminie, Elfie and Ethel looked up to see what was the matter.

“What the —— is this? How is it? Why wasn’t I told about it? Answer,
Miss!” exclaimed the angry old soldier, turning upon his daughter.

“Now here’s a row! Answer what? Now don’t obstreperate, but explain,
pap,” coolly replied Elfie, as she daintily ate her egg from its shell.

“_This_, Miss! THIS!” exclaimed the almost infuriated old man, holding
up the paper with one hand and rapping upon it with the fist of the
other.

“Don’t make a noise over the breakfast table, you dear old boy—it is
impolite; and don’t destroy the paper before other people have read
it,—it is selfish. But tell me like a good boy, what’s the row?”

“She is half right. Erminie, my dear, I beg your pardon; but that girl
of mine is enough to drive any sane man mad! Ethel, take that and read
it,” said the major, extending the paper to the lieutenant and pointing
out the offensive paragraph.

It was headed—

          A GIRL DRAFTED BY MISTAKE AND INSISTING ON SERVING.

And it was a full account of Elfie’s visit to the Provost Marshal’s
office and all that took place in her interview with the officers there.

“There!” said the major, when Ethel had finished reading—“what do you
think of that? Oh, I’ll take her across to St. Elizabeth’s and shut her
up in the lunatic asylum!”

“No you won’t, pap! People can’t do that with sane women in this
country! Now do be just! that’s a nice old boy! Could _I_ help being
drafted?”

“It was some infernal mistake! I beg your pardon, Erminie, my dear. It
was some mistake. But you could have helped reporting, you
exasperating——”

—“As if I _would_ have helped reporting, pap? No! I leave _that_ sort of
poltroonery to the men!” said Elfie.

The major fairly shook with wrath.

“Be consoled, pap, they wouldn’t have me, you know. They said I didn’t
belong to a good fighting family!” said Elfie.

The major started up from the breakfast table, and left the room in hot
anger.

The breakfast party looked dismayed.

Erminie arose and threw her arms around the perverse girl’s neck, and
pleaded with her.

“Elfie! dear Elfie, go after him. Ask his forgiveness. Make friends with
your father!”

“Leave me alone, Minie! I know my dear, old governor; he’ll soon be all
right!” said Elfie.

But the dear, old governor did not get over his vexation as soon as
Elfie expected. He kept his little daughter at a distance for some days.

“Come, pap,” she said to him one morning, “let’s compromise! I will
promise you ‘never to do so more,’ if you will buy me a substitute!”

But the indignant major made her no reply.

Elfie persisted in her proposal with all the perseverance of the Beast,
who daily for a year asked Beauty to marry him.

“Come, pap! buy me a substitute and I’ll promise you not to run away in
boy’s clothes, and ’list!”

But still the old man did not deign to answer. All this time, also,
Elfie was, as she always had been, in all substantial services a most
devoted daughter to her father. She attended to his room, to put all
those little finishing touches to its comfort that no one but herself
could effect. She kept his clothes in perfect order. She had one of his
half dozen pairs of slippers always just where he wanted them. His pipe
was always at hand. His pitcher of iced lemonade was never empty.
Nothing that tended to his comfort was wanting.

But still the major was inexorable.

“Just look at my pap!” Elfie would sometimes say, “sitting there sulking
and distilling bile! If he goes on this way much longer, he’ll make
himself so sick I shall have to give him a dose of calomel and
jalap!—Pap! you may sulk as long as you please, and make yourself as
yellow as saffron, _but_—if you don’t buy me a substitute I’ll ’list! I
will, as sure as I’m the daughter of a hero!”

So at length by coaxing, threatening, wheedling, and bantering, Elfie
brought her indulgent old father out of his anger, and so far into her
way of thinking that he actually did buy her a substitute. He gave five
hundred dollars to a fine young foreigner to represent Elfie in the
field.




                               CHAPTER V.
                          THE LOVERS’ PARTING.

                  She weeps the weary day.
                The war upon her native soil,
                Her lover’s risk in battle broil.—SCOTT.


Britomarte boarded with a widow of the name of Burton, who had three
grown daughters. They lived in a small white cottage, in a large, shady
garden, in the northeastern suburbs of the city, and not very far from
the parsonage. The mother and daughters supported themselves by taking
in plain sewing from the quartermaster’s department. As Britomarte was
their only boarder, and was contented to share their own simple and
frugal meals, her living was inexpensive, and she paid for it by needle
work.

Every hour of the day that she did not devote to visiting the hospitals
with Erminie, was employed in this work, and the stroke of midnight
often found her still at her needle. And yet, with all this industry,
Britomarte could scarcely make enough to pay her small expenses.

Justin and Erminie guessed all this, and felt great but vain regret; for
so long as Miss Conyers remained so obstinately proud and independent,
they could do nothing on earth to assist her.

“It seems to me,” complained Erminie, “that if I were in Britomarte’s
place, I would allow those who love me to improve my condition.”

“You cannot understand her, and I do not blame her,” answered Justin.

Once, while the two girls were on their way to the Douglass Hospital,
Erminie said:

“Britomarte, dearest, if you _will_ be so independent, why can you not
be so in a more agreeable way—agreeable to yourself, I mean? Instead of
delving over those coarse garments for the quartermaster’s department,
why do you not give music lessons?”

“Because, my dear, I only want transient work, something that I can give
up at any moment without wronging any one.”

“But what do you mean by that, Britomarte?”

“My stay in Washington is short and uncertain.”

“Oh, pray don’t say that. Where will you go?”

“I do not know, dear,” answered Miss Conyers, in that grave tone that
forbade farther cross-questioning.

So Erminie sighed and fell into silence.

Britomarte was now so closely engaged that she seldom got time to spend
an evening at the parsonage. Something like a fortnight had elapsed
since that evening when she had taken tea with Erminie, and laughed at
Justin for his mere camp promotions; and since then she had not visited
their house.

One afternoon she sat diligently sewing on a coarse blue jacket, when
Mrs. Burton came up to her room and told her that there was an old
colored man below asking to speak to her.

She went down stairs and found Uncle Bob, who handed her a note from
Erminie.

It was very short, and ran thus:

“_Dear Britomarte, please come to me at once, for I am in great
distress._

                                                               ERMINIE.”

“What is the matter, Uncle Bob?” she inquired.

“Ma’am?”

“Is there anything amiss at your house?”

“No, ma’am, not as I knows of. Miss Erminie is crying, but I aint heern
no bad news.”

Britomarte ran up to her room, and put on her bonnet and shawl, and came
down and joined the old servant, and started for the parsonage. But her
fleet steps soon distanced his feeble ones, and she arrived at the house
first, and hurried immediately to the library, where she found Erminie
in tears.

“What is it all, my dearest?” inquired Miss Conyers, throwing off her
bonnet and shawl, and taking Erminie in her arms.

“Oh, Britomarte, I have no courage at all when the test comes,” sobbed
Erminie, dropping her head upon the bosom of her friend.

“But what is it, dearest?” again inquired Miss Conyers, with a misgiving
heart.

“Oh, can’t you imagine? Oh, Britomarte, the brigade has marching orders
at last. It is to leave in the boats this evening.”

Even Britomarte for an instant reeled under the blow, but in another she
rallied and replied:

“That is well. We don’t want any more camp heroes, Erminie.”

“But it is so sudden. True, we were expecting this, or rather hearing of
it, every day. But it had got to be an old story. I began to think that
the brigade would remain in the forts, when about an hour ago came an
orderly sergeant with this note from Justin—listen to it,” said Erminie,
unfolding a little note and reading:

                                                 Head Quarters of the ——
                                                   Fort ——

  “MY DEAREST SISTER:—We have received our marching orders. We go by the
  six o’clock boats this afternoon. I will try to see you before we
  leave. If I cannot get to the house, will you be at the wharf? And as
  you love me, send for Britomarte, and prevail on her to remain with
  you at the house, or accompany you to the wharf, as the case may
  require. Heaven bless you both.

                                                                JUSTIN.”

“It is now two o’clock. Shall you stay here or go to the wharf?”
inquired Britomarte, in a tremulous tone.

“I shall remain here until five o’clock. If he does not come before that
hour, I shall know that he will not come at all, and that the only
chance we shall have of taking leave of him, will be at the wharf,”
replied Erminie.

“My darling, if he is not here within a very few moments, he will not be
here at all; for you know he must leave himself time enough after
visiting you to get back to camp to march his company.”

“That is true. Still, it is not worth while for us to leave the house
before five o’clock, as they will not be at the boats before half-past
five,” said Erminie.

“You are right,” agreed Britomarte.

“And oh! I still hope that he may come here. It will be dreadful to have
to bid him good-bye at the wharf, in the multitude of men. But if I do
have to go to the wharf, you will go with me, Britomarte?” pleaded
Erminie.

“Certainly,” replied Miss Conyers.

“And oh! Britty, Britty, if you would only give him a little hope—a
little hope to cheer him on his way.”

“Don’t speak of it, Erminie. I would die for your brother rather than
sacrifice my principles so far.”

Erminie sighed and forbore to reply.

“Where is Elfie?” inquired Miss Conyers, to change the conversation.

“She is packing her father’s portmanteau. He, too, leaves us to join his
regiment to-morrow; and Ethel goes the day after. We shall have a lonely
house here, Britomarte.”

“You will fill it with refugees from the South, never fear,” said Miss
Conyers, cheerfully.

Even while she spoke, the door bell rang sharply.

“That is Justin!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and running out
to meet him.

Britomarte remained pale and breathless where Erminie had left her.

There was a sound of meeting, and of sobbing, and of cheering words, and
then the brother and sister entered the library.

Britomarte arose and gave her hand to Justin. He pressed it in silence.
They could not trust themselves to speak just then.

“How long—can you stay with us, my brother?” said Erminie, striving hard
to control her emotion and to speak with composure.

“I may remain with you until five o’clock, dear. My first lieutenant
will march my company to the boat, and I have leave to join it there.”

“Thank Heaven for so much grace!” replied Erminie, as she turned and
left the room.

She went out from a two-fold motive—to order a dainty dinner prepared,
so that they all might partake of one more meal together, and also to
give her brother the opportunity of making one more last appeal to his
obdurate love.

When they were left alone together, Justin and Britomarte remained for a
few moments silent and motionless. Both were too full of suppressed
emotion to trust themselves to move or speak.

Justin was the first to master himself. When he had done so, he
approached Britomarte, stood before her a moment, and then taking her
hand, said, in a tone thrilled with passion:

“I promised you never again to speak of the subject nearest my heart.”

“Then keep your promise, Justin,” she said, in a gentle, solemn voice.

“You will not free me from it?”

“I cannot.”

“Britomarte!”

“Well?”

“Do you know why, after so long a delay, we have at length received such
sudden marching orders?”

“I do not.”

“Nor yet where we are going?”

“No.”

“I will tell you. We are ordered to C——, to reinforce General M——, who
is hourly expecting a battle.”

Britomarte started as if she had suddenly received a stab; but quickly
recovered herself, and firmly replied:

“Then I congratulate you, Justin. I would to Heaven I could stand at
your side—your brother-in-arms—on the day of battle!”

“So would not I,” said Justin, gravely—“so would not I. But, Britomarte,
you have it in your power to give my arm great strength, if you please
to do so.”

“Love of your country should be all sufficient to nerve your arm,
Justin,” she answered, earnestly.

He took her hand, and sought to read her face; but she turned away her
head to conceal the emotion she could not quite control.

They were interrupted:

                    “‘Malbrook is bound to the wars!
                    Malbrook is bound to the wars!
                    Malbrook is bound to the wars!
                    And I hope he’ll never return!’”

sang Elfie, dancing into the room.

“So you are really off, are you, Justin?” she inquired, giving him her
hand.

“Yes, Elfie—really, off at last,” replied Justin, smiling.

“Well, so is my governor, and so is my substitute! And I wish with all
my heart and soul that I was going too! But, you see, I have given my
pap my sacred word not to enlist, unless my substitute jumps the bounty,
or gets himself killed or taken prisoner!” said Elfie.

Erminie hearing the voices in the library, thought it would be of no use
for her to remain out any longer, depriving herself of her brother’s
society. So she came in. And after that the conversation, under the
auspices of Elfie, became general and cheerful.

A very nice dinner was served at four o’clock. And Justin and the three
young ladies sat down to it together.

Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel were not at home, and not expected
before six o’clock.

After dinner Erminie sent out for a carriage.

“You must let us ride down to the wharf with you, Justin, and see you
off,” said his sister.

“Yes, yes—it is just what I wish,” he answered.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, you, too, will go with us,” pleaded
Erminie.

“Of course I shall, love,” murmured Miss Conyers, in reply.

“Elfie dear, I know that you must stay here to receive your father when
he comes in to dinner, else I would ask you also to go with us,” said
Erminie.

“Thanks for nothing!” laughed Elfie. “I can’t go, and I don’t want to
go; and as Captain Rosenthal is neither my brother nor my lover, there
is no necessity for me to go.”

The carriage was at the door at five o’clock.

Justin took leave of Elfie, left his regards for Major Fielding and
Lieutenant Ethel, and then entered the carriage where Britomarte and
Erminie were already seated.

A half hour’s rapid driving brought them to the steamboat wharf, which
was now a scene of great excitement.

The troops were embarking; and a great number of people—relatives,
friends and even mere acquaintances were assembled to see them off.

The regiments were embarked by companies. And while one company would be
passing on to the boat in files, those remaining on the wharf were “at
rest.”

Some were devouring fruit and cakes at the stands on the grounds; some
buying papers of the newsboys, who were crying the last victory; some
were shaking hands with friends; and others, many others, were bidding
good-bye to mothers, wives, sisters, or sweethearts, assembled there,
“to see the last of them.”

In the crowd one boy attracted Britomarte’s attention. Though he wore
the uniform of a soldier, he did not seem to be more than fifteen years
of age. A bright, spirited-looking lad he was, but he seemed quite alone
in that crowd. No one accosted him, and he spoke to none. Britomarte
watched him with some interest.

“He belongs to my company,” said Justin.

Britomarte and Erminie now got out of their carriage and stood with
Justin, until the company immediately before his own fell into order to
embark. Then it was the turn of Justin’s company to form.

“I must leave you now, Erminie! be a woman, my little girl!” said
Justin, hastily but fervently pressing his sister to his bosom.

“God bless you! Oh! God bless you, my brother!” she cried, trying hard
to swallow and keep down her sobs and tears.

“Good-bye, Britomarte!” said Justin, solemnly, giving her his hand.

“Good-bye! May God strengthen your arm, and preserve your life in the
battle, and send you back with victory! Good-bye!” she answered,
wringing his hand and dropping it, and turning away her head to hide the
strong emotion all but too manifest in her countenance.

A sigh reached her ear, and then the piteous words:

“Well, there is no one in the world to bid _me_ good-bye, or ask God to
bless me. Oh, well, so much the better may be, for if I’m killed
there’ll be nobody’s feelings hurt.”

Britomarte looked up.

It was the lonely boy who had spoken, and now he stood there with a
smile that was more touching than tears could have been.

Britomarte’s pity moved for the friendless lad.

“Yes, my boy, _I_ will bid you good-bye, and pray God to bless you, and
to bring you back to us safe!” she said, taking the lad’s hand, stooping
and pressing a kiss upon his brow.

Justin saw it all; but not a shade of jealousy clouded his own mind. He
understood Britomarte too well.

“God bless you for that, noble woman!” he whispered. “I will look after
the lad as though he were my younger brother, or _yours_.”

And these were Justin’s parting words to Britomarte.

While he was leading his men on to the boat, Britomarte and Erminie
returned to the carriage, where they sat watching until the few
remaining companies embarked, and the boat got up her steam, and steamed
away from the wharf.

Even then they continued to watch the boat as long as she remained in
sight.

And finally they gave the order to drive back to the parsonage. When
they arrived, Erminie tried to persuade Britomarte to alight and go in;
but in vain. Miss Conyers felt that she needed the solitude of her own
chamber.

“Go in, dear Erminie. Elfie and her father will cheer you up this
evening. To-morrow I will come to you,” she said, embracing her friend,
and then drawing her veil over her face and turning her steps homeward.
Britomarte reached her boarding-house and opened the front door, which
admitted her immediately into the neat little parlor where the landlady
and her daughters were seated at tea.

Mrs. Burton arose in a little bustle to get another cup and saucer, and
saying, apologetically:

“We waited an hour for you, Miss Conyers, and then we concluded that you
were spending the evening with your friends, and so we thought we would
have our tea. But I will make some fresh for you in a moment.”

“No—pray do not disturb yourself. I can not take anything just now. By
and by, may be, I may come down and make a cup for myself,” said
Britomarte, passing hastily through the parlor to the back room, from
which the stairs ascended to her own chamber.

Arrived there, she bolted herself in, threw off her bonnet and shawl,
and dropped down upon her bed, in a collapse of all her enthusiasm, and
wept bitterly.

For nearly three years she had been the constant companion of Justin,
under circumstances that threw them entirely upon each other for mutual
comfort and support; and the love that had first been inspired by his
high personal excellence was now confirmed by habit.

Since they had returned to their native country, and mingled freely with
their fellow-creatures, each little event that had come between herself
and her lover, to part them even for a day, had been felt like the
stroke of a cleaving sword dividing her bosom.

Even the first little parting in the city, when she went temporarily to
a hotel, and he went to his home, a few streets off, was a sharp pain,
although she knew that she would see him every day.

The second parting, when he enlisted, and went over to his fort on the
south side of the river, was a much sharper pain, for she knew that she
should see him only every week at oftenest.

But now this parting was insupportable agony, for she felt that she
might not see him for years, if indeed she should ever see him again.

Moaning and weeping in her anguish and despair, she now realized how
utterly her soul had passed into the soul of her lover, so that she
lived only in his life.

Yes, only in his life. Lifeless, except in its painful
half-consciousness of death, seemed her own being; lifeless the great,
populous city; lifeless the long lines of occupied forts; lifeless all,
because he was no longer in the midst. While away down the broad river,
somewhere, in one man’s bosom, beat the heart of all life for her.

An unsupportable sense of suffocation, like the being stifled with grave
clods, overwhelmed her. She struggled up and threw open the windows of
her room for air. But it was a subtler air than any in her reach that
she needed for her relief. And an intolerable longing to be near him, to
be with him at all costs, seized her. She felt that she could not
breathe apart from him; that there could be no evil in this world come
to her so great as this evil of separation from him; that there was
nothing could be compared with it; nothing could be weighed against it;
no cause on earth could or need justify such a mortal severance.

Without him, the fairest, brightest scenes of earth would be to her as
lifeless and as gloomy as the charnel house, while with him _any_
scene—a hut, a cave, a bomb-proof, the rifle-pits, the battle-field,
aye, the Libby Prison itself, would be endurable.

In the great bitterness of her anguish, she repented that she had not
married him, and gone with him to the field. That would have been
happiness, and the only happiness possible for her. But then she was
pledged to abjure his whole sex in the way of love and marriage.

But if it were possible that she could have followed him to battle,
followed him through life, as his sister, that would have been the next
best thing to being his wife; or better still, as his brother, for as
his brother she might be beside him on the battle-field, in the midst of
an engagement, when shot and shell were flying fastest, in the thickest
carnage, where, as his wife, she would never be allowed to appear.

A vehement, passionate desire to be all this to her beloved; to be to
him more than wife, sister or brother had ever been to man before—more
than all these combined could ever become—to be his brother-in-arms, his
inseparable companion, his shadow, his shield, his guardian angel, in
the tented field, in the pitched battle, in the rebel prison, or in the
grave.

And why should she not be all this to him? she asked herself. There was
no law of God or man that forbade it. There was no human creature whom
she could hurt by it.

In the midst of her impassioned aspirations she stopped short, sat down,
and put her hands to her temples and took herself to task.

“Am I mad or morbid?” she inquired. “All this must be wrong and
extravagant. There are thousands and thousands of wives who are parted
from their husbands, and girls who are parted from their lovers, by this
war. I meet such every day, and they are very cheerful over it. ‘My
husband is on General Sherman’s staff,’ says one lady, with more pride
than regret. ‘John is with Admiral Dahlgren before Charleston,’ chirps
another, whose betrothed is daily exposed to death. Is my love greater
than theirs, or is my patience only less?” She paused, and then answered
herself—

“I know not how it may be with others—I only know that I cannot live or
breathe except I go to my lover’s side and share his toils and dangers.”

And she arose and put back the dark tresses of her hair, while a
wonderful calmness and resolution settled her stormy features into
stillness.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                         THE GUERRILLA’S WIFE.

              Danger, long travel, want and woe,
              Soon change the form that best we know;
              For deadly fear can time outgo,
                  And blanch at once the hair;
              Hard time can roughen form and face,
              And what can quench the eye’s bright grace,
              Nor does old age a wrinkle trace
                  More deeply than despair.—SCOTT.


Erminie grieved bitterly over the departure of her brother; yet she, no
more than Britomarte, would have kept him back even if she could have
done so. But she wept and prayed through the whole of the succeeding
night. Only the reflection that he was doing his duty to his country,
and the belief that her prayers for his safety would be heard in Heaven,
at length sufficed to console her.

The next morning she had no time to grieve and but little to pray. A
busy and exciting day was before her.

Early in the forenoon, Lieutenant Ethel, with earnestly grateful
acknowledgments of the affectionate hospitality he had enjoyed for so
many weeks, took a sorrowful leave of the parsonage.

It is true that he need not have hurried away to join his ship at
Baltimore that day. But a fine sense of delicacy suggested to him a
certain impropriety in his remaining the guest of a house where there
were only two young ladies left to entertain him. So he took leave a few
hours previous to the departure of Major Fielding.

“I feel really sorry that he is gone. He is a gentlemanly young
officer,” said Erminie, looking after the hack that was conveying him to
the railway station.

“Yes, but he was a nuisance for all that! and I am very glad he is out
of the way,” said Elfie, who was standing by her side.

“Oh, Elfie, how can you say any thing so unkind!”

“It isn’t unkind; it is true.”

“He never was in _my_ way.”

“No; because you are so methodical, you never can be put out by
anything. You rise, dress, eat, walk, read and sleep by rule. Now I’m
different. I like to sail all over the house in a loose wrapper, without
the danger of meeting with one of the male sect of Christians. And when
I am in a hurry in the morning I like to run down from my chamber to the
kitchen in my bare feet. But I declare I never undertook to do either,
yet, while there was a male creature in the house, that the male
creature did not start out of the drawing-room or the library and meet
me full face, as if Old Nick had kicked him into my path. Not that I
cared, only I didn’t like it. And so I’m heartily glad Ethel for one is
gone.

                    ‘Malbrook is gone to the wars
                    And I hope he’ll never return!’”

sang Elfie, saucily dancing into the house.

In the afternoon Major Fielding took an affectionate leave of his
daughter and their hostess, and left the city to join his regiment.

Elfie had admonished him to keep his face clean and his hair combed and
his shoes tied; to obey his superior officer, write home once a week,
and be a good old boy generally. She had watched him out of sight.

And now that he was quite gone, she ran up stairs, away up into the
attic, where she felt sure of being free from interruption, and she
locked herself in and gave herself up to a good howling spell.

She heard Erminie looking for her in the empty chambers below, doubtless
with the intention of offering her consolation, and she held her breath
to keep from being discovered. Presently she heard Erminie give up the
search and go down stairs.

And soon after Elfie also arose, wiped her eyes and stole down to her
own room, where she washed her face, brushed her hair and arranged her
dress. And then she ran down to the library and joined Erminie.

“I feel very sorry that your father has gone, Elfie,” said the gentle
girl, in a sympathizing tone.

“So do I. But then he’s gone ‘where glory waits’ him, and all that, you
know, and—it’s a great relief!”

“Elfie!”

“Well it _is_, Minie. Bless the dear old governor! he is just as little
of a nuisance as one of the male persuasion can be reasonably expected
to be; but they are all nuisances, Minie, and it is a great relief to
get rid of them.”

“Oh, Elfie, your father, dear!”

“Oh yes, I know, and I’m really very fond of my pap, and I shall pray
every day that he may keep out of the Libby Prison! And I’m very sorry
he is gone. But why may I not draw what comfort I can from the
reflection that the dear old fellow fagged me almost to death while he
was here? Bless the tall baby! he never knew where he left his
boot-jack, or what he did with his spectacles, or how to find his
gloves. And I was worked harder than a draft horse with waiting on him
to keep him straight! Now I can recline back in my chair, and kick my
heels all day long at my ease!” And the perverse imp suited the action
to the word.

“I know you too well to believe you, Elfie. Although you say these
shocking things, and seem to take pleasure in seeing how they really
_do_ shock me, yet I am sure that at this moment you would give the
world, if it was yours, to have your dear father back again, if you
could have him consistently with his duty. As for poor Ethel, however, I
really do believe that you are glad _he_ is gone,” said Erminie,
gravely.

“You better _had_ believe it. Ethel was a horrid bother, and I am
delighted to be rid of him. Oh, Minie, it is a great blessing that there
is not a man left in the house to worry us! What a good old time we
shall have all to ourselves! We needn’t trouble our heads now about
puddings and soups and salads and things! When we are hungry we can eat
a bit of bread and butter, with some nice jam spread over it, and have a
cup of tea. And we can sail about the house all day long in our wrappers
and slippers, without feeling like blockade runners in imminent danger
of meeting the enemy.”

Erminie’s thoughts had wandered to Britomarte, so she let her wild
companion rattle on unheeded and almost unheard. She reflected that
Britomarte had spoken of calling to see her in the course of this day.
Now the day was nearly over, and Miss Conyers had not come.

“And I tell you what, Erminie, this is freedom. No more addling our
brains over incessant changes of dishes to suit their exacting
appetites. Lor, Erminie, if it were not for the men, _we_ would never
trouble our heads with the study of a new omelette, or a new sauce or
gravy, would we? But those gormandizing animals, you know, they think of
nothing on earth all day long but their blessed stomachs, unless it is
their bothering shirt buttons! I really do believe we women were the
original creations, and men were afterwards inflicted on us in
punishment of our sins. They _are_ such torments, Minie. And now they
are all gone we shall have a glorious old time! And I’m going to begin
mine by——”

Here a sharp, loud, impatient ringing of the door bell put a sudden stop
to the conversation.

“That’s Britomarte, now,” exclaimed Erminie, starting up.

“No, it isn’t. It’s not her ring,” cried Elfie.

Then both paused and listened while Old Bob opened the door.

A minute passed, and then the library door was opened by the old man,
who announced:

“Madame Vittorio Corsoni!”

And to the unbounded astonishment of the two girls, she who was once
Alberta Goldsborough entered the room.

“Oh, Alberta! Alberta! I am so glad to see you, love!” exclaimed
Erminie, forgetting the guerrilla’s wife, and impulsively springing up
to meet with an overflowing welcome her beloved old schoolmate.

Elfie never budged.

“Glad—glad to see me whom you Unionists term a rebel? In truth, I had
not expected this, Erminie,” said the visitor, pushing farther off her
face the long rusty black veil that had nearly concealed it.

Erminie’s countenance changed, her frame trembled, and her tones
vibrated with emotion, as she replied:

“I am grieved, Heaven knows how deeply grieved to hear you say so,
Alberta.”

And then Erminie paused, in doubt as to what she should say or do next.

Had the visitor been her own personal enemy coming to her in this
seemingly inoffensive guise, she would have made her very welcome, and
treated her very kindly.

But her country’s enemy was another affair. Had she the right to
entertain a secessionist? Would it not be aiding and abetting secession?

Erminie hesitated in much distress of spirit. Her gentle heart pleaded
for the worn and sorrowful-looking woman before her, but her scrupulous
conscience warned her not to yield to these feelings.

While Erminie thus hesitated, the visitor turned to Elfie, and said, in
surprised recognition:

“Why, this is Elfrida Fielding, is it not?”

“Yes, that is my name, and it is very nearly all that the confederates
have left me,” answered Elfie, without even raising her eyes to the face
of the questioner.

“And have _you_ no welcome for me, Elfie?” sadly inquired Alberta.

“No. I should have no welcome for my grandmother, were the old lady a
guerrilla’s wife,” relentlessly answered Elfie, averting her head.

“But I am no guerrilla. And I have taken the oath of allegiance, or you
would not see me here,” said Alberta, with a strange, discordant laugh.

But these words seemed to set Erminie’s spirit free.

“Have you? have you? Oh, have you, indeed, Alberta? Then you are
welcome! welcome! thrice welcome! to my heart and home, and to our
country’s cause, Alberta. Sit down, love, and rest here, and let me take
off your wrappings,” she said, gently forcing her visitor into the
easiest chair, and tenderly untying and removing her bonnet.

“You wonder at seeing me here?” said Alberta.

“No, indeed; I wonder at nothing in these days,” smiled Erminie.

“I must tell you, however, why I have intruded upon you.”

“Your visit is no intrusion, and you shall tell me nothing more, dear
Alberta, until you are rested and refreshed. Tea will be ready very
soon, and after you have had it, you shall share my chamber, and in its
privacy tell me what you like. Just now, it is enough for me to hear
that you have returned to your old allegiance, and to see that you are
weary and sorrowful.”

Again that strange discordant laugh broke from Alberta’s pallid lips,
and jarred harshly upon the ears of her hearers.

Erminie felt that she would rather have seen her weep than heard her
laugh so strangely. Her act was more like hysteria or even madness.

The girls had been sitting in the light of the fire, which the chill of
the early autumn evening rendered very welcome. But now Erminie arose
and lighted the gas. And then they saw their visitor plainly.

Alberta was awfully changed, and Erminie shuddered as she gazed on her.
Her dress was all black, but rusty and travel-stained. Her face and form
were still beautiful, but the “glory” of their beauty was “obscured.”
Her once oval face was lengthened and hollowed, her perfect features
pinched and sharpened; her fair complexion sun-burned, her brilliant
hair faded, her graceful form emaciated.

Her whole aspect spoke of the hardships and exposures of the hunted and
battling life she led by the side of the guerrilla chief.

Yet one saw, in contemplating this change, that it was, at worst, beauty
impaired and not destroyed, and that a few months of quiet happiness
might restore it in all its pristine splendor.

“Oh, how much you seem to want repose! Stay with me and rest, oh, poor,
storm-beaten friend!” murmured Erminie, gently caressing her visitor.

“I knew that you were humane and tender-hearted, Erminie, and I felt
encouraged to come to you—to you of all the world—in the hour of my
distress.”

“And you have not trusted in vain. I will do everything in my power to
serve you, Alberta. Everything, I mean, not incompatible with the
service of our country, and of course you would not wish me to
compromise my duty to her, for you have taken the oath of allegiance.”

“Yes, I have taken the oath of allegiance. I should not have been here
else,” replied Alberta, in a tone that grated unpleasantly upon the
nerves of her hostess.

“Then it was a compulsory oath,” put in Elfie, very dryly.

“It was a compulsory oath in so far as this: that I should not have been
allowed to cross your lines without having first taken it.”

“‘Your lines?’ Why do you not say _our_ lines, since you have taken the
oath, and are one of us?” inquired Elfie.

“I spoke from the force of habit, that is all,” answered Alberta.

“Do you mean to keep your oath?” inquired Elfie.

“Most assuredly I do. Why?”

“Because you needn’t, you know, if you don’t like to—that is all. It is
a compulsory oath by your own showing, and compulsory oaths are neither
morally nor legally binding; at least they are not held to be so by
persons of your way of thinking, Alberta.”

“I hold myself bound by my oath; but it seems that you are mocking me,
Elfrida. And whether you yourself are loyal or otherwise, you are no
true daughter of the South to mock at a fallen sister,” said Alberta.

“You are down, I see, but blest if I know whether you have ‘fallen’
down, or whether you have _crouched_ down for a fatal spring! By the
gleam of your eyes, Alberta, I should say the latter.”

“Elfie! Elfie! your words are cruelly unjust, I do believe. Remember

                  ‘Who by repentance is not satisfied,
                  Is nor of heaven nor earth,’”

said Erminie, gravely.

“I’ll say no more, except this: If you are in the possession of any
state secrets that it would profit the Confederacy to know, do not
communicate them to Alberta.”

“In the first place, I know of no state secrets whatever. And in the
second, I fear no betrayal of confidence on the part of Alberta,” said
Erminie, holding out her hand in pledge of trust to her sorrowing
visitor.

Alberta took it and held it tightly for a few moments, while an
inexplicable expression of something like prophetic remorse overshadowed
her countenance.

“Don’t mind Elfie, dear. She is rightly named. She is an elf—a tricky
spirit. She mocks at everything, even, alas! at her own father!” said
Erminie.

“I do not heed her since you trust me,” replied Alberta.

“I am expecting Britomarte every moment; and when she comes, we four,
who used to be called the ‘Belles of Bellemont,’ and to be inseparable
companions, will be together once more—be together for the first time
since that happy summer we spent at your father’s lovely home, ‘The
Rainbows.’”

“That happy summer before the war. Oh! Heaven! ‘Sorrow’s crown of sorrow
is the memory of happier days,’” said the guerrilla’s wife, mournfully.

“Be comforted. You are young yet, and the happy days may return again,”
said Erminie, kindly.

“My father’s home is desolate; his household goods broken and scattered.
Federals and Confederates have occupied his house and ravaged his land
in turn. The forests have been levelled, the crops swept away, the
cattle driven off, and fences and buildings destroyed! Desolate!
desolate! all is desolate there!” said Alberta, in a sepulchral tone.

“All have suffered something in this awful war, Alberta. But peace will
come again, and all will be well——I wonder why Britomarte don’t make her
appearance? I do not think I can wait for her any longer. We will have
tea, and then you shall go to my chamber and sleep with me, and tell me
all your troubles, as you used to do when we were girls at school
together,” murmured Erminie.

And she rang the bell and ordered the tea brought in there.

“Britomarte? I read a very strange account of her having been
shipwrecked upon a desert island in the Indian Ocean, and rescued thence
by one of your ships of war. Was it true?”

“It was all true—every word of it,” said Erminie.

“Why do you say ‘your’? Why do you not say _our_ ships of war, since you
have taken the oath of allegiance in good faith, and are really one of
us?” dryly questioned Elfie.

“Force of habit, I repeat,” replied Alberta.

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! do mind what you are saying!” pleaded Erminie.

“Don’t distress yourself, Minie! She means well, but she mistakes me;
that is all,” said Alberta, resignedly.

The tea service was brought in and arranged upon the neat table. And the
three young women seated themselves at it.

Erminie presided over the urn.

“Do you know, Erminie, that this is the first blessed cup of tea that I
have tasted for more than a year?” said Alberta, as she raised the
fragrant Oolong to her lips.

“Oh! what a privation! but you had coffee?” said Erminie.

“No, nor chocolate!”

“But how was that?”

“I was always with my husband; he had an independent command, and was
what _you_ call a guerrilla chief; ours was a hunted life, a Cain’s
life; our hand was against every one, and every one’s hand against us!
Our home was the wildwood or the ruined farm-house; our occupation war,
rapine, plunder. We were far enough from the comforts of civilized life,
as you may judge!”

“Oh, Alberta! what a fate for you, delicately reared as you have been!
But it is all over now, love; you have come in to us and all will be
well!” said Erminie.

“But you have not heard my story yet,” murmured Alberta.

“I will hear it very soon; and no matter what it is, or has been, now
that you are with us, Alberta, I will hold you to my heart of hearts,”
said Erminie.

They finished drinking tea and arose from the table.

And still Britomarte did not make her appearance.

“She will not be here to-night! It is now too late to expect her,” said
Erminie, as she rang for a servant to come and remove the tea service.

“Now, Alberta, dear, I will show you to our room, and—would you like a
bath?”

“Oh yes! very much, indeed! that, too, is a luxury I have not enjoyed
lately.”

“Then I will order one got ready. Come, dear,” she said, leading the way
from the library followed by her guest.

In a moment, as from the impulse of an after thought, Erminie stepped
back to speak to her guest.

“Elfie, dear, you are my sister; and so much at home here that I know
you will kindly excuse my absence this evening.”

“Yes, certainly! But listen to me! You are going to have a tête-à-tête
with the wife of Vittorio Corsoni, the Guerrilla Chief! Hear her story,
since you must! But give as little credence to it as you can! And—give
her no confidences in return; for, mark me, Erminie, she is a spy!”

An hour later Erminie and Alberta sat together beside the fire in the
bed chamber of the former. And there the minister’s daughter heard the
terrible story of the guerrilla’s wife—a story that need not be told in
detail here. It is sufficient to say, that Alberta Goldsborough, the
delicately nurtured daughter of the South had suffered some of the most
horrible evils of the civil war.

Her parents had just become reconciled to her marriage when her father
was killed in battle, his house burned to the ground, and her mother
turned out to die of exposure and privation.

Alberta, maddened by these sufferings, joined her husband in his wild
guerrilla life and incited him to the very worst of those depredations
that made his name a terror to all the Unionists of the valley.

In one of his encounters with the Union troops he had been taken
prisoner and conveyed to Fort W., where he had been tried and condemned
to death, and where he was then waiting the execution of his sentence.

It was in the desperate hope of gaining a pardon for her husband, that
the guerrilla’s wife had come to Washington.

Erminie, with tears of pity, told Alberta that she would accompany her
to the President, to sue for this pardon.

Accordingly, the next morning Erminie ordered a carriage and took
Alberta to the White House.

But it happened that the President was even more than ordinarily
engaged, and they failed to obtain an interview.

This disappointment excited Alberta’s anxieties to the utmost pitch, and
in her desperation, she vowed, that if she could not obtain the pardon
of her husband she would do that which should place her by his side on
the scaffold.

These wild words greatly alarmed Erminie, who with much difficulty
persuaded Alberta to come home with her.

There a surprise met them in the shape of a paragraph in the morning’s
papers announcing the escape of the famous Free Sword from Fort W.

The joy of Alberta was now as excessive as her previous grief had been.
She even apologized for her mad threats.

Erminie persuaded her to take some refreshment and to go and lie down.

And in truth the minister’s daughter was suffering great anxiety on
account of the guerrilla’s wife.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                             ABOUT ALBERTA.

          The look, the air that frets thy sight
            May be a token that below
          The soul has closed in deadly fight
            With some infernal fiery foe,
          Whose glances would scorch thy smiling grace,
          And cast the shuddering on thy face!—A. A. PROCTOR.


Erminie, in the midst of all her distress about Alberta, felt also a
growing anxiety concerning Britomarte.

Another day was passing, and Miss Conyers had not made her appearance at
the parsonage.

Erminie feared that she was ill, and longed to go to her boarding-house
to see her, but dared not to leave home while so doubtful a guest as the
guerrilla’s wife was under her roof, and while she was looking for the
arrival of her pastor to consult with him as to what should be done in
the case of Alberta.

It is true that she might have sent a messenger to inquire after
Britomarte, but in the momentary expectation of Dr. Sales’ call, she
hoped to get the interview over in time to visit her friend in person.
She also hoped that Britomarte herself might make her appearance.

So she waited, and the day wore on to the dinner hour. And she now began
to think that Alberta was sleeping very long—unusually long, even for an
exhausted traveller. It was more than four hours since she had lain
down.

Erminie stole softly up to her chamber, noiselessly opened the door and
peeped in.

The room was quiet and shaded, and the white curtains were drawn around
the bed as she had left them; so she softly closed the door and stole
quietly down stairs again.

The table was set in the dining-room, and Catherine was in the act of
bringing up the soup, when Erminie met her in the hall.

“You may keep the dinner back for a little while, Catherine. Madame
Corsoni has not yet waked up,” she said.

“Very well, Miss,” replied the girl, turning back towards the kitchen.

Besides Alberta and Britomarte, a third subject of anxiety troubled the
young girl; for three days she had not visited the hospitals. On Tuesday
she had waited at home all day long to take leave of her brother before
his departure for the front. On Wednesday she had stopped to see her
guests, Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel, off to their respective
posts of duty; and to-day she was detained by the necessity of watching
over her distracted visitor. In truth, the minister’s orphan daughter
had enough upon her hands just now.

Another hour passed, and Erminie began to grow uneasy, and Elfie
impatient, and Frederica rather cross.

Again Erminie stole up to the room and peeped through the door. No
change since she was there last. Curtains drawn, room cool, shady and
quiet. She returned to the library and said, “We will wait a little
longer. I do not like to wake her up, or to eat dinner without her.”

And so, to the disgust of Elfie, the annoyance of Catherine and the
indignation of Frederica, the dinner was still kept back.

“There,” said Elfie, “she has been sleeping six hours now! The clock has
struck seven. She ought to be waked up for her own sake.”

“I will go and look at her. If she is still sleeping quietly, I will not
wake her, but I will have the dinner served at once. If however she is
awake and feeling well, I will get her up and help her to dress.”

So once again Erminie went up stairs and entered her chamber.

All shady, cool and quiet as before.

She stole to the bedside and drew the curtains.

The bed was empty.

“She has got up and gone to the bath-room. She was always a duck in her
love of laving in water,” thought Erminie, feeling no sort of uneasiness
at her guest’s absence from the chamber.

But to assure herself of the truth of her own surmise, she went to see
if the bath-room door was shut. She found the door wide open and the
room empty.

Perplexed and anxious, she made a hasty tour through all the rooms on
that floor, then ran up to the story above and searched the rooms there,
then up into the attic and searched that.

“I know she is deranged, and she may be lurking somewhere about the
house with a fit upon her,” said Erminie, as she hurried from place to
place in her vain quest.

But the guerrilla’s wife was nowhere to be found.

“It cannot be that she is in any of the rooms below. Some of us must
have seen her,” reflected Erminie, as she ran down the three flights of
stairs to the first floor.

“Well, has Alberta finished her Rip Van Winkle sleep yet?” inquired
Elfie.

“Yes; but I cannot find her. I have looked in her room and in all the
other rooms above and she is nowhere to be seen in any of them. I think
she must have come down here.”

“Of course she must if she isn’t up stairs; but I haven’t seen or heard
anything of her. I will go and hunt her up, while you order the dinner
put on the table. I am as hungry as an unhurt hero after a fight,” said
Elfie, dancing out of the room in search of the guest.

Dinner was served and only waited the reappearance of Elfie. But fifteen
minutes passed, when she came into the dining-room, flushed, excited and
almost indignant.

“I can’t find her. She is neither in the house nor the garden, that is
certain. And it is my opinion she has taken French leave!”

“Taken French leave!” echoed Erminie, in surprise.

“Yes, it would be just like her,” said Elfie, who, since the escape of
Vittorio, had lost much of her pity for Alberta.

“I can easily ascertain. I will go and see if her bonnet and mantle are
in their places,” said Erminie.

And once more the patient girl ran up stairs to examine the chamber that
had been occupied by her guest.

But bonnet, mantle, parasol and reticule were all gone.

Not a doubt now remained upon the mind of Erminie that the guerrilla’s
wife had gone away. But whether to return again Erminie could not
decide. While she stood perplexed in the middle of the room, a scrap of
paper attached to the toilet pin-cushion caught her eye. She went and
unfastened it, and read the pencilled words:

“_Thanks and blessings, and good-bye._”

And now she felt assured that Alberta had indeed gone to return no more.

But for Erminie’s compassion for her suffering state, the absence of the
guerrilla’s wife would have been felt as a great relief. But Erminie had
no time now to analyze her contradictory emotions. She hastened down to
the dining-room, and showed the scrap of paper, with its six words of
adieu, to Elfie.

“I felt sure she was gone,” was the comment of Miss Fielding; “and now I
hope we shall have our dinner,” she added.

“Certainly,” said Erminie.

“But no,” said Fate; for at the moment the front door bell rang sharply,
and in a few minutes Dr. Sales was ushered into the drawing-room and his
card was brought to Erminie.

“Elfie dear, go on with your dinner; don’t wait for me,” said Miss
Rosenthal, as she arose from the table, and passed into the drawing-room
to receive her visitor.

“Your message only reached me a few minutes ago, my dear, and I came
away directly to answer it,” said the reverend gentleman, rising and
shaking hands with the orphan.

“Thank you, Dr. Sales. I ventured to send for you on a very important
matter, that has perplexed and distressed me very much; and not the less
because I could not clearly see my own duty in the affair. The absence
of my brother and Major Fielding made it necessary that I should trouble
you for counsel.”

“My dear child, you know that I am always happy to serve you. You do
indeed look as if you were worried almost to death! What is the matter,
my child?”

“Oh, Dr. Sales! I have had such a terrible fright!” exclaimed Erminie,
on the brink of bursting into tears, but controlling herself.

“Come! tell me all about it.”

“I hardly understand it myself. I may have been on the eve of witnessing
one of the most appalling crimes that ever was perpetrated! one of the
most tremendous misfortunes that could befall our country!” exclaimed
Erminie, shaking violently with agitation at the bare memory of the
threats in the President’s anteroom.

“Compose yourself, my dear; and, in order to do so, avoid using strong
language, which only excites you,” said the clergyman, laying his hand
solemnly on the bowed head of the girl.

“But you see I cannot recur to it without horror.”

“Is it necessary to recur to it at all, my child.”

“Oh, yes, else I had not sent for you. I have a solemn duty to perform
in the matter, and do not see clearly how to do it. And I want your
counsel.”

“Then tell me all about it, my dear. Come, now, quietly like a Christian
child,” said the clergyman, in a soothing manner, and speaking with much
more calmness than he really felt, for the words of Erminie had
surprised and alarmed him.

Erminie made a great effort to control her agitation, and then began to
tell him of the visit of Alberta Corsoni.

And Dr. Sales put a constraint upon himself, and listened composedly,
without making a single comment upon the narrative, lest he might
increase the excitement under which his companion was laboring.

Erminie faithfully related all that had occurred—the visit to the
President’s house, the muttered threats of the guerrilla’s wife, “_I
will have my husband pardoned, or do that which shall place me on the
scaffold by his side_,” her own alarm at hearing these awful words, the
difficulty with which she got the desperate woman out of the White
House, the subsequent apology made by the woman for her wicked threats,
the paragraph relating to the escape of Vittorio Corsoni, the excessive
joy of Alberta, and her secret flight from the house.

“Now,” said Erminie, in conclusion, “Alberta’s apology for her sinful
threats seemed very earnest and might have been quite sincere, and but
for her gloomy looks, and muttered threats and strange behavior, I
should have received it without a doubt.”

The clergyman slowly shook his head, but made no remark.

“My mind has been distracted with grief and perplexity,” continued
Erminie; “for on the one hand it seems beyond measure cruel and
treacherous to lodge information against a poor, unfortunate woman who
has sought the refuge of my home, who may be quite innocent of any wrong
intention, and who may suffer great injustice from a mere suspicion. And
on the other hand, the probability of her insanity, and the bare
possibility of such an atrocious—oh, I cannot speak the word! But you
see I feel as if I dare not withhold this information from the
authorities,” exclaimed Erminie, shuddering.

“No, you dare not withhold it,” said the clergyman. “It is your solemn
duty to go to the Provost Marshal, and tell him exactly what you have
told me. It will be for him to judge whether there is sufficient cause
for pursuing and arresting this miserable young woman.”

“It is one of the most repugnant duties I ever had to perform. Oh, the
office of a spy or an informer is very, very abhorrent to my feelings.
And she was my old schoolmate, and friend and guest. Ah, it is very
bitter!” said Erminie, trembling with emotion.

“I know how hard it is, my child. But if you should not perform this
duty, think what might happen. Erminie, my dear, next to our duty to God
is our duty to our country, and neither friends, guests nor kinsfolk
should stand between us and that. Now, go get your bonnet on, my child,
and I will myself attend you to the Provost Marshal’s office to lodge
this information,” said Dr. Sales.

And Erminie, feeling as miserably as she had ever felt in her life, went
obediently to prepare herself, thanking Heaven, in the meantime, that
Alberta was no longer in her house.

When she was quite ready she came down. And she and her pastor set out
for the Provost Marshal’s office.

Meanwhile Elfie waited for her hostess. But when she saw Erminie,
attended by Dr. Sales, leave the house, she lost all patience,
exclaiming:

“Well, really, people in this place never seem to know when other people
ought to eat. Catherine, bring in the pudding.” Elfie finished her
dinner, and rang the bell for the parlor maid. Catherine came in.

“Here, you remove these things, and tell Frederica that Miss Rosenthal
has gone out without her dinner, and direct her to have a young chicken
ready for the gridiron, and to keep the kettle on the fire and make some
toast. Miss Rosenthal having missed her dinner, will require something
warm with her tea.”

“Very well, Miss,” answered acquiescent Catherine.

And Elfie arose rather impatiently and passed into the library, where
the gas was now lighted, and flung herself into one of the easy chairs,
exclaiming crossly:

“Plague take the people, I do wish they would let poor Minie have some
peace of her life. From her early rising to her late retiring, she has
not one hour to herself, poor child. She is at everybody’s beck and
call. And between the wounded soldiers in the hospitals and the refugees
from the South, and the contrabands, and—bless patience—yes, the
guerrillas, too, she is harrassed almost to death, poor girl. And now
where on earth has the old parson taken her? I declare she doesn’t even
get time to eat!”

So grumbled Elfie, unable to settle herself to any sort of employment.
After awhile she again rang the bell, and brought Catherine to her
presence.

“You may lay the cloth for tea in this room. It is more comfortable than
the dining-room. And you must have everything ready for Miss Rosenthal
by the time she returns.”

“What time do you expect her, please, Miss Fielding?” inquired the girl.

“I expect her every moment, for it is after eight o’clock, though it is
very possible she may not be in before ten, but you do as I bid you,”
replied Elfie.

And as she was fully recognized as commanding officer in the absence of
Erminie, her orders were immediately obeyed.

The cloth was no sooner spread than Erminie’s ring was heard and
answered.

Erminie lingered at the hall door for a moment, trying to persuade Dr.
Sales, who had attended her home, to come in and rest himself before
going farther. But the clergyman pleaded an engagement and bade her good
night.

And Erminie came into the library.

“Well, upon my word! But I suppose angels can do without food or sleep,
and that is the secret of your living and working without either,”
exclaimed Elfie, as she arose and made Erminie sit in the easy chair and
rest herself, while she untied and removed her bonnet, and unpinned and
took off her shawl.

Erminie, instead of answering, burst into tears, and wept softly behind
her pocket handkerchief.

“Here, Catherine, take Miss Rosenthal’s bonnet and shawl up stairs, and
put them away. And you needn’t come in again until I ring,” said Elfie
handing the articles named to the parlor maid, who was still engaged in
arranging the table.

The girl took the things and left the room.

And then Elfie caressing Erminie, inquired:

“Where have you been?”

“To the Provost Marshal’s office, to lay before him certain information
regarding poor Alberta. Dr. Sales said that I must do it, and took me
there,” replied Erminie, weeping.

“But what did the Provost Marshal say or do to set you grieving so?”
demanded Elfie.

“Oh, nothing at all. He put me upon my oath, and then took down my
statement regarding poor Alberta’s visit here and to the President’s
house, and all that happened there,” replied Erminie, remembering that
Elfie knew nothing about the episode of the concealed revolver.

“And what then?”

“The Provost Marshal thanked me for the information given, and requested
me not to speak of it to others. So, Elfie dear, let us drop the
subject, if you please.”

“But how will the Provost Marshal act upon your information?”

“I do not know. They never tell anything. They hear all that they can,
but they tell nothing. It is not their business to do so.”

“Then I don’t see what there was in the interview to distress you so
much,” said Elfie, rising and touching the bell.

“Oh, my dear, it is this. Though I have done only my duty—a most painful
duty to me—I feel like an informer and a spy. Oh, Elfie, this awful war,
that upsets not only all material but all moral life!” wept Erminie.

“Heaven bless your tender conscience! You seem to me to have done your
duty by everybody. You didn’t invite the guerrilla’s wife to your house.
She walked in upon you, told you that she had taken the oath of
allegiance, and you received her kindly and treated her well. She left
you under such suspicious circumstances—I know they must have been
suspicious, else you would have had nothing to tell the Provost
Marshal—that your pastor, on hearing of it, insisted that you should
lodge information in the proper quarters, and actually took you off to
do it. So why you should reproach yourself _I_ don’t know.—Yes,
Catherine, tea immediately.”

This last to the parlor maid who answered the bell.

Tea was soon served.

“And now I hope you will try to eat a little. Lord knows, between the
saints and the sinners, you can scarcely call your body or soul your
own,” said Elfie, as she sat down and began to wait on Erminie—pouring
our her tea and placing the wing and breast of the broiled chicken on
her plate.

“Thanks, Elfie; but help yourself, my dearest,” urged Erminie.

“Oh, I can’t eat. I had my dinner so late and ate then so heartily,
having fasted so long, that I can’t touch a morsel now. I will have a
cup of tea, however,” said Elfie.

“Britomarte has not been here this afternoon?” inquired Erminie.

“No.”

“I am very uneasy about her.”

“Oh, of course,” grumbled Elfie. “Some one or other of your friends are
always making you uneasy, plague take them!”

“But, Elfie, I am afraid she is ill.”

“Mrs. Burton would have sent you word.”

“Yes, I hope she would. And then, to be sure, I have no more reason to
wonder at her mysterious absence than my poor soldiers have to wonder at
mine. Oh, Elfie, think of it! I never missed a day visiting them before,
and now three days have passed since I have been to see them. What will
the poor fellows think?” sighed Erminie.

“Whatever they think, it will not be to the effect that you are
neglecting them. Perhaps they fancy that you are a little worn with your
exertions in their behalf, and they hope to see you soon again.”

“Oh, Elfie! many a poor fellow that _I_ hoped to see again has passed
away in these three days, I know. They die every day. No day do I go
without missing some familiar face,” sighed Erminie.

“See here, my dear! your pretty shoulders are tolerably fine ones for a
young woman. But I doubt if they are so strong as to be able to bear the
burdens of all the world. You have done what you could for the brave
fellows. Continue to do what you can; and for the rest trust them to
their Heavenly Father and ours, you weeping philosopher,” said Elfie.

“That is good advice, dear; and I will try to follow it. I am no weeping
philosopher, Elfie. But to-night I believe I am despondent because
broken down by the events of the last twenty-four hours.”

“Then you must go to bed and try to get some sleep. In the morning you
will feel better.”

“I think I will go, Elfie; and I do hope I shall feel better; for
to-morrow we must make our rounds of the hospitals, and also look up
Britomarte, unless she should first make her appearance here,” said
Erminie, rising from the tea table.

And soon after this the girls retired.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                           ABOUT BRITOMARTE.

                  Your wisdom may declare,
              That womanhood is proved the best,
              By golden brooch and glossy vest,
                  That mincing ladies wear.
              Yet it is proved and was of old,
              Anear as well—I dare to hold
                  By truth, or by despair.—E. B. BROWNING.


Early the following morning Erminie arose very much refreshed and
invigorated by a good night’s rest.

After breakfast, accompanied by Elfie, she went the rounds of the
hospitals.

At two o’clock she sent Elfie home, while she herself went to
Britomarte’s boarding-house.

A sickening presentiment of evil overcame her as she entered the little
gate, walked up to the door and rapped.

Mrs. Burton opened the door.

“Oh, Miss Rosenthal! how do you do? I have been hoping that you would
call. Please to come in,” said the mistress of the house.

“Mrs. Burton, how is Miss Conyers? Is she quite well?” anxiously
inquired Erminie, as she followed the widow into the little parlor.

“Why, my darling child, she is gone,” answered Mrs. Burton, as she sat a
chair for her visitor.

“Gone!” echoed Erminie, in dismay, sinking into the offered seat, and
gazing at the speaker.

“Yes, my dear—gone. She has been gone these three days.”

“And without taking leave of me!” said Erminie, in a sorrowful voice.

“My dear, she left a letter for you. And I ought to have sent it over
before this. But you see I had nobody to send it by but one of my
daughters. And we are all so busy working upon a lot of havelocks that
_must_ be finished by Saturday, that we can’t take time to eat or sleep,
or hardly to say our prayers. But I did mean to steal time to bring the
letter over to you this blessed evening. I will go and get it now,” said
the widow, leaving the room.

“Gone! I can scarcely realize it. Though indeed she has often hinted to
me that she might leave the city at any moment,” said Erminie, as she
arose to receive the letter from the landlady when the latter returned
to the room and put it into her hand.

Britomarte’s letter was dated on the very evening of the day on which
Justin’s regiment had marched. It was written in Miss Conyers’ usually
firm and clear chirography, and ran thus:

  “MY DEAR AND GENTLE FRIEND:—Duty, or what I believe to be such, calls
  me hence very suddenly. I have no time to bid you farewell in person,
  even if I could trust myself to such a parting interview. From time to
  time I will write and let you know where and how I am. I hope that you
  also will keep me advised of your well-being. For the present, a
  letter addressed ‘B. C., Baltimore Post Office, till called for,’ will
  find me. Give my love to Elfie. And, dear and good Erminie, accept my
  love and my prayers, which are always offered up for you.

                                                            BRITOMARTE.”

When Erminie had finished reading this letter, she dropped again into
her chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Mrs. Burton brought her a glass of water, saying:

“Drink this, my dear; it will revive you.”

Erminie drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the landlady, and
said:

“Dear Mrs. Burton, please tell me all about it. She went away the
evening she wrote this letter, or the next morning?”

“The same evening, my dear. The evening of the day on which the brigade
marched,” said the widow, placing the empty tumbler on the table, and
taking the chair nearest her visitor.

“Yes?” exclaimed Erminie, in tearful eagerness.

“You never heard of anything so sudden in your life! You know, your old
negro man, Uncle Bob, had been here in the morning to bring her a note.”

“It was from me.”

“Well; so she went away with Uncle Bob, and staid away all day.”

“She was with me.”

“At seven o’clock, while we were at tea—I and my girls—she came in. I
jumped up to make fresh tea for her; but she stopped me, saying that she
would take nothing then, but might make a cup for herself by and by. And
so she hurried through the parlor and up into her own bed-room. She
looked very much agitated, and that is the sacred truth. I spoke of her
appearance to my girls; and they thought it was because she was grieving
after some friends who might have gone with the brigade.”

“Yes, that was it,” said Erminie, frankly.

“Later in the evening she came down. I and my girls were still at work.
I thought she wanted her tea, and again I got up to make her some; but
again she stopped me, saying something like this:

“‘Mrs. Burton, I am about to leave you—I must do so to-night. Would you
mind sending Johnny to call a carriage for me?’

“(Now Johnny is my nephew, on a visit to me at present.) I looked at her
in perfect astonishment to hear her talk of leaving me so suddenly at
that hour of the night. And when I looked I saw her face was as white as
marble and nearly as hard in its expression of settled determination.

“‘My dear Miss Conyers,’ I said, ‘I hope you have heard no bad news that
takes you away to-night. Hadn’t you better wait till to-morrow? It is
very late to leave the house.’

“‘I must go nevertheless. Can you let Johnny call a carriage for me?’
she said.

“I declare I was so struck all in a heap that I hardly knew whether I
was standing on my head or my heels. Johnny was drawing pictures on the
slate by my side. And the livery stable was no great distance off; so I
said ‘Yes,’ and sent the boy right away to call the carriage.

“And she went up stairs to put on her things, and I went down into the
kitchen to make her a cup of tea and a round of toast; for I knew I
should have time to do it, because the livery men would be at least
twenty minutes getting the carriage ready; and the kettle was already
boiling; and I was determined she shouldn’t go out of my house without
her tea. So, sure enough in about ten minutes I had it all ready, and
took it up on the waiter, and set it on the parlor table. She was
sitting there, with her bonnet and shawl on, and her traveling basket in
her hand.

“‘Try and eat a bit, my dear,’ I said. ‘You will have plenty of time.
The carriage won’t be here for ten minutes yet.’

“She smiled and thanked me her own gracious way, that always reminds me
of a princess, though I never saw one, and she sat down and drank the
tea and ate the toast, and by that time the carriage came, little Johnny
riding on the box with the driver.

“So she got up and sent the driver up to her room to bring her trunk
down; and while he was doing that, she took out her little purse and
paid me the week’s board, though it wanted two days of being due. And
then she gave me this letter for you.

“And when the man had put her trunk on the carriage, she bade us all
good-bye.

“‘But where are you going, my dear?’ I asked, as I held her hand,
unwilling—oh, yes, the Lord knows how unwilling to see her go.

“‘To Baltimore,’ she answered.

“‘But there is no train to-night,’ I said.

“‘I shall go by the very first train in the morning. In order to make
sure of it, I shall stop to-night at the best hotel that I can find
nearest the station.’

“And so, kissing me and thanking me for what she called my motherly
kindness to her, she went out.

“‘But you will write and let us know how you are?’ I called after her.

“‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, waving her hand from the carriage which was
then driving off.”

The widow ceased to speak, and Erminie, leaning her head upon her hand,
sighed deeply.

“And is that all you can tell me, Mrs. Burton?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.

“Every bit, my dear.”

“You haven’t heard a word from her since?”

“Not one word.”

“Have you the least idea of what she intends to do in Baltimore?”

“Not the least. She went away so suddenly that I hadn’t time to question
her much, even if she would have submitted to be questioned. Dear me, it
all passed like a flash of lightning. Before I could realize that she
was going, she was gone!” said the widow. Then, after a short pause, she
inquired: “Have you any suspicion what she intends to do, Miss
Rosenthal?”

“Indeed no. I wish to Heaven I had!” answered Erminie, mournfully.

And then, finding that she could learn no more to throw light on the
mystery of Britomarte’s departure, she arose, thanked the widow for the
information given, and left the house.

On reaching the parsonage, Erminie found luncheon ready, and Elfie
waiting for her.

“Minie,” said that impatient young lady, “if you are of the heavens,
heavenly, and can live without eating, I’ll have you know that I’m ‘of
the earth, earthy,’ and can’t do without victuals. It was seven o’clock
when we breakfasted, and now it is three.”

“My dearest Elfie, always eat when you are hungry, and don’t wait for
me. I have been to Britomarte’s boarding house,” said Erminie.

“Yes, I know, and found her all right, I dare say.”

“I found her place empty. She has left!”

“‘Left!’” echoed Elfie in astonishment.

“Yes. Oh, what a pity!”

“But where has she gone?”

“To Baltimore; but to what part of the city we do not know. She gave no
address, but simply ‘W. W., Baltimore post office.’ Here is the letter
she left me. The landlady could tell me little more than the letter,”
said Erminie, handing it to Elfie.

“‘My heyes!’ as the cockneys observe, here is a go! Have you any idea
what she is going to do, Erminie?”

“Not the slightest!”

“I have, then!”

“What? What?”

“She is going into the army!”

“Oh, Elfie! never!”

“I tell you she is! I am just as sure of it as I am of my own life! Else
why should she go off without taking leave of us?”

“Why, indeed!” repeated Erminie.

“You see she didn’t want to be cross-questioned, as to her intentions.”

“She might not have wished to be cross-questioned; and yet she might
have had no such intention as you suspect,” said Erminie.

“Bosh! I tell you, Erminie, she has gone into the army. You know what
her sentiments are! You know what her spirit, courage, and independence
are! You know that she is not responsible to any human being in the
world for her actions! And you also know what a consummate actress she
is, and how perfectly she would enact the part of a soldier. And
finally, Erminie, you know, for you have often heard her declare, that
she will keep the laws of God and man, and in other respects do as she
pleases!”

“Yes, yes, yes! I know all that you have said. But, oh! Heaven forbid
that she should have done as you suppose,” sighed Erminie.

“She has done the deed! And neither you nor I could prevent her from
doing it! So now come sit down and have some luncheon! Pap’s gone,
Ethel’s gone, Justin’s gone, Alberta’s gone, (but she’s a good riddance
of bad rubbish!) and now Britomarte’s gone! All are gone but me! But
take comfort, Minie, dear! Though all the rest are gone, I will never
go! I will never leave you alone!” said Elfie, with some real feeling,
and with full faith that she could keep the promise she had made.

But Elfie “reckoned without her host.” Destiny, had ordained that she
should be torn away from her friend and carried off by guerrillas.

Erminie wrote to Britomarte, entreating her to return to Washington, or
at least to write and satisfy her anxious friends as to her prospects.

By return mail she received an answer, in which Miss Conyers thanked her
for her affectionate interest, but begged her to dismiss anxiety and
trust Britomarte’s welfare to Britomarte’s wit.

But Erminie’s anxiety was only diverted to another quarter. That
evening’s papers brought news of a severe battle in which Justin’s
regiment had been engaged, and in which the Union arms were victorious.

And Erminie suffered the most acute anxiety until she received a letter
from her brother full of good news of the victory and kind messages to
friends, proving that he was quite well.

And Erminie’s soul rejoiced in thanksgiving.

Indeed, that summer of victories had so raised the spirits of all loyal
people in Washington, as well as elsewhere, that long discontinued
festivities began to be resumed; and, among the rest, picnic excursions
became frequent.

The fine weather lingered long that season, and the early autumn was
followed by an Indian Summer of unparalleled beauty and geniality.

In the very midst of that delicious season, when any rational human
being, free from care or pain, might have been happy in any place, Elfie
grew weary of the pleasant parsonage and wished for a change of scene,
“if only for a day,” she said.

And so, instigated, no doubt, by the great enemy of mankind, she went
about among her young acquaintances—idle young ladies, with nothing to
do, and worse than idle young men who had dodged the draft, and she
proposed to get up a picnic party to go to—The Great Falls of the
Potomac, of all places in the world.

“You know, Erminie,” she argued, in defending herself to her hostess, “I
have been shut up in this beleagured city so long, for nearly three
years, unable to get into the country on account of the guerrillas, that
indeed I feel like a prisoner longing to escape.”

“But I thought you promised not to leave me,” said Erminie, who (though
from no selfish motive) disapproved the venture altogether.

“Neither do I intend to leave you. I intend that you shall go too.
Think, Erminie! the weather is so perfectly beautiful! pleasanter than
we could have it at any other season of the year. It is just dry and
cool and bright enough to be entirely delightful!”

“But, Elfie, in these unsettled times and that unsettled neighborhood it
is scarcely prudent to have a picnic.”

“Oh, gammon! There is nothing to be dreaded from the guerrillas now. Of
the three great bands that ravage the banks of the Potomac, not one is
in the neighborhood of Washington—not within a hundred miles. Monck is
in the Shenandoah Valley, where he has enough to do to take care of
himself and his command. The ‘Free Sword’ is a fugitive and his band
dispersed or hiding in the fastnesses of the Alleghanies. And _my_
traitor, set fire to him! must be very far away indeed, since he has not
been heard of for so many months. I tell you it will be as safe as
safety to have a picnic excursion to the Great Falls—so far as the
guerrillas are concerned,” pouted Elfie.

“Yes, perhaps, so far as they are concerned. But the guerrillas are not
the only dangers, or the most likely ones to beset you, Elfie. The
country you would have to pass through is infested with stragglers and
deserters from both armies. And these are equally as cruel and ruthless
as the guerrillas. Indeed, we hear of many more outrages from the former
than the latter.”

“So we do, but not along that road particularly. What should our pickets
be about, to let such beasts of prey rampage all over the country?”

“Our pickets themselves get shot down frequently.”

“Oh, bosh! You’re trying to frighten me, Erminie. _I will go._ So there,
now. The autumn woods are perfectly enchanting now, and I’m just dying
to see them. And I haven’t had a glimpse of the ‘Ole Virginny Shore’ for
three years, and I’m dying to see that also. And I never, in the whole
course of my life, set eyes upon a live guerrilla, or a dead one,
either, for that matter, and I’m dying to have a ‘skrimmage’ with them.
Erminie, I’d go all the sooner if I thought there was the slightest
chance of our having a skirmish with guerrillas. But there’s no such
good luck, unfortunately. Our excursion will be as safe as the
perfection of dullness could desire.”

“Oh, you perverse girl. I see that you are bent upon running the risk,
so I shall say no more about it,” said Erminie.

“Say no more about it, and think no more about it—about its imaginary
dangers, I mean—for no dangers really exist. And you will go with us,
Erminie?”

“No, dear; I have failed to persuade you to give up the excursion, but I
cannot join you in it.”

“You are afraid of the guerrillas, or stragglers, or deserters,” mocked
Elfie.

“No, really I am not—honestly not,” said Erminie.

“Then why not go with us?”

“Because, Elfie, I don’t like to leave my poor wounded boys in the
hospitals. There are some of them that look for their ‘sister,’ as they
call me, every day.”

“You make yourself a slave to those same boys,” crossly exclaimed Elfie.

“No, I don’t. I am free to go and come as I please. I can go and comfort
them, or stay away and neglect them, as I like, but _they_ are
bond—wounded, fevered, weary of their beds, and utterly helpless, they
must depend upon the pleasure or caprice of free, healthy people to come
to see them. And there is the pity of it, Elfie.”

“I wish to goodness you would have a little pity on yourself,” grumbled
Elfie.

Erminie smiled.

“There is not the slightest danger of any one of us failing in pity for
ourselves, Elfie,” she said.

“Then give yourself a holiday once in a way, and go with us on our
picnic excursion. Now, do—now, do, Minie—that’s a darling!”

“I would like to oblige you, Elfie dear, and I should not dislike the
trip up the river this beautiful Indian summer weather, but I cannot go
with you this time.”

“Well, upon my word, you ‘sainted girls’—as I have heard more than one
white-cravated and blue-spectacled young parson call you, are the most
stubborn and ‘stiffnecked generation’ that ever was! I do believe you
refuse just out of opposition to me.”

“No, Elfie. Listen, dear: During the three days that I was prevented
from going to the hospital, one of my poor boys died. And he wanted to
see me, and kept asking for me and looking for me—poor, helpless boy!—as
long as he lingered in life. I shall never cease to be sorry for my
absence then; and _now_, as long as there shall remain a wounded and
bed-ridden soldier in these hospitals, whom my presence can comfort or
cheer, I will never leave the city for a party of pleasure. No dying
eyes shall ever again strain themselves to look for me in vain!” said
Erminie, gravely and earnestly.

“Oh! Erminie, dear, you _are_ a saint, and I fear—I very much fear, that
you will be a martyr, too!” said Elfie, more seriously than she had yet
spoken; for she was at length really and deeply touched by the words of
Erminie.

But the Lutheran’s orphan daughter slowly shook her head, gravely
answering:

“Don’t misapply such terms of praise to me, dear Elfie. ‘Saint’ and
‘martyr’ are holy names that few in this age of the world deserve to
bear, and I least of all.”

“Oh! you mean, I suppose, that the only way to be a saint is to abjure
the world and cleanliness and live alone, in sackcloth and ashes; and to
be a martyr, is to set up some new doctrine and die for it,” said Elfie.

“No, you mocker—you know that I mean no such thing,” laughed Erminie.

“I’m glad you don’t; for I hold that the man or woman who devotes him or
herself to the service of their suffering fellow-creatures, is as good a
saint as ever preferred his own company to other people’s—filthy
sackcloth to clean linen; and he or she who dies in such a service, I
hold to be as good a martyr as ever offered up his life for a difference
of opinion in politics or theology!”

“So do I, Elfie,” said Erminie.

And here the talk stopped.

This conversation occurred on the Wednesday of that week.

And the picnic excursion—that most disastrous picnic excursion—was fixed
for the following Saturday.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                    AN UNEXPECTED GUEST AT A PICNIC.

               Outlaw and free thief,
               Landless and lawless,
               Through the world fare I,
               Thoughtless of life.
               Outlaw and free thief,
               My kinsmen have left me,
               And no kinsmen need I
               Till my kinsmen need me.
               My sword is my father,
               My shield is my mother,
               My ship is my sister,
               My horse is my brother.—CHARLES KINGSLEY.


We have seen that Miss Rosenthal could not succeed in prevailing on her
perverse guest to abandon the picnic excursion. And, indeed, the
sanguine young people who came on the next day to the Parsonage to
arrange with Miss Fielding the details of the festival, contrived to
reassure Erminie as to the perfect safety of the expedition.

“The roads are guarded on both sides by our pickets, and the country for
miles back is quite free from dangerous characters,” said Mr. Allison, a
young man of fortune, who had a substitute in the field, risking his
life in Mr. Allison’s stead.

“Besides, we shall all go armed to the teeth, and determined to die if
necessary, in defence of the ladies!” said Mr. Jim Mim, a very small
young man, with a “wee face and little yellow beard,” but with, I do
believe, the soul of a hero, for he had done his very best to get into
the army, and had been rejected a score of times upon the ground of
physical disability.

“But—to use your own phrase,”—said Erminie, smiling, “‘will it pay’ in
enjoyment to go upon a party of pleasure when you have to go ‘armed to
the teeth,’ and keep up a vigilant watch all the time?”

“Oh, dear, yes! a spice of danger will only add zest to the adventure. I
agree with Miss Fielding that nothing could be more piquant than an
encounter with Monck and his fierce band,” put in Mr. Montgomery Fitz
Smithers, a huge six-footer, with the body of a giant and the spirit of
a pigmy, who had crept out of the draft upon the plea of being the only
nephew of a maiden aunt, or something of the sort.

“The spice of danger you speak of may add to _your_ enjoyment,
gentlemen; but it can scarcely add to the comfort of the young ladies of
your party,” said Erminie.

“I do assure you, Miss Wothenthall, that the danger is altogweder
imaginawy. Our awmes are only pwecautionary measures against the bare
possibility of mere annoyance; and evwy awangement shall be made for the
comfort of the ladies,” lisped Mr. Lew Billingcoo, a very exquisite
dandy, whose chief merits lay in a neat little figure, a round little
head, a nice little face, and a “cute” little moustache, as to person;
and a jet black suit, snow white linen, pure diamond studs, new kid
gloves, fresh pocket handkerchief, and a rare hot-house flower stuck
into his button-hole, as to dress.

“Only a clerk,” he spent all his small income on his outward adornments,
and hoped to marry an heiress who should pay his board bill and make his
fortune.

Mr. Billingcoo paid the most devoted attention to every one of the few
“moneyed” young ladies of his acquaintance, and he expected all pretty
girls who were not moneyed to pay devoted attention to _him_; and—more’s
the pity—he was not always disappointed.

Woe betide this exquisite young gentleman if he should fall into the
hands of the “roughs” of Monck’s, or any other guerrilla’s band!

Erminie, convinced against her will, offered no farther opposition to
the picnic excursion, but set about, with affectionate zeal, to forward
the views of the party.

Old Frederica, the cook, was directed to boil a ham and a leg of mutton,
and to roast a turkey and a pair of fowls. Erminie herself made lemon
pies and pound cakes, besides giving Elfie a _carte blanche_ to order or
prepare anything she liked; for she wished that the hamper from the
parsonage should be excelled by none.

Mr. Allison, being the rich man of the party, provided the most costly
wines to be procured.

Mr. Montgomery Fitz Smithers, the faint-hearted colossus, furnished a
band of music consisting of four pieces.

Mr. Jim Mim, the “feeble but ferocious” hero, nearly ruined himself in
the purchase of West India sweetmeats, French candies, English potted
meats, and other rare delicacies.

Mr. Lew Billingcoo, the exquisite, contributed himself, his guitar and a
bouquet of fragrant exotics for every young lady.

Two of these young men—Mr. Allison and Mr. Mim—had mothers and sisters,
who were of course members of the picnic; Mr. Smithers had a maiden
aunt, and Mr. Billingcoo a grandmamma, who was such a lively old lady
that she was always ready for any frolic that might be set on foot by
the young people; and these ladies were also to be of the company.
Besides these there were many other ladies and gentlemen, making in all
a company of thirty or thirty-five.

There were three ways of reaching the Great Falls from Washington and
Georgetown. The first was by the River road; but that was in a very bad
condition from the constant passage of trains of army wagons and
ambulances, and droves of mules and horses. The second by the Conduit
road, leading past the new water works; but this was objectionable for
the same reasons as was the River road. The third way was by the
Chesapeake and Ohio canal; and this way was certainly free from the
objections that could be urged against the former two.

So, after changing their minds half a dozen times from the River road to
the Conduit road, and back again from the Conduit road to the River
road, our party gave up both as impracticable and determined to go by
the canal, and to charter the bright little steamboat Gadfly to take
them. The picnickers wished to pay for this boat by subscription; but
Allison, the millionaire, insisted upon taking it in his own name and
being at all the charges for transportation.

A cook, a couple of waiters and a chambermaid, all colored people, were
engaged to attend upon the company.

At length the long expected, ardently desired, eventful Saturday came.

The picnickers were to assemble at the parsonage. And by five o’clock in
the morning, Erminie, whom you know to be the very soul of kindness, had
a comfortable breakfast prepared for the whole party, who were all on
hand by a quarter past five. By six o’clock four ambulances and a
baggage wagon, all borrowed from the quartermaster’s department, were in
attendance to convey the whole party with all their stores to High
street, Georgetown, where they were to take the boat, and where also the
band of music and the colored waiters, cook and chambermaid were to meet
them.

Many hands make labor light, ’tis said; and so the young men, having
breakfasted to their satisfaction on Erminie’s strong coffee, fried
chickens, broiled ham, rice cakes and rolls, set to work with a will and
soon loaded the baggage wagon with their stores. There were about thirty
ladies and gentlemen comprising this picnic party, and they expected to
be gone but twelve hours; but their stores were enough to feed three
hundred people for the same time.

When the last package was put into the baggage wagon, the gentlemen
assisted the ladies into the ambulances, and followed them there: and
the train started—Erminie standing in the door and looking after them,
smiling and waving adieu.

The sun had not yet risen, but the clearness of the dark blue sky at the
zenith, and the bright red flush of the Eastern horizon surely promised
a fine day.

The horses were fresh of course, and travelled at a fine exhilarating
rate. And so great was the glee of the picnic party, that they could
scarcely refrain from breaking into song, even there in the streets.
They were only enabled to restrain themselves by thinking how they would
sing when once free of the city and town.

An hour’s rapid jolting brought them to the lock in Georgetown, where
the little canal steamboat Gadfly, with the Union flag flying, lay
puffing and blowing as with impatience to receive them. Their colored
band of musicians and their colored servants were standing on the deck
waiting for them.

The party quickly alighted from their ambulances, and went on board the
boat.

The servants speedily unloaded the baggage wagon, and transferred the
stores to the deck.

And just as the sun arose, the band of music struck up Hail Columbia,
and the little steamer blew her shrill signal whistle, and started for
up the country.

Past the useful and necessary, but excessively ugly warehouses, past the
lumber yards and fish market, past the Aqueduct Bridge and the suburban
grog-shops, steamed the little Gadfly, until she was well free of the
town and its suburbs, and in a comparatively quiet country, with the
narrow tow path and the broad river on the south, and the narrow road
and rocky precipice on the north.

The party were all on deck, and as soon as they dared do so they broke
into song. First they sang “Hail Columbia,” because the band was playing
that tune. Then in turn followed “Yankee Doodle,” “The Star Spangled
Banner,” “Rally Round the Flag, Boys,” “John Brown,” “We are Coming,
Father Abraham,” “The Year of Jubilo,” “Just Before the Battle,” and, in
fact, one after another, every popular song of the day. If music had
been their profession, and if they had been well paid for singing so
many songs at one time, they would have thought that they had been
working too hard, and they would have felt very tired; but as they were
singing only for their own amusement, they were insensible to fatigue.
But then you see it makes all the difference whether our violent
exertions are called work or play. There are those who fretfully play at
work, and those who cheerfully work at play, and those who invariably do
both.

Our picnickers were very perseveringly working at play. They were,
indeed, so taken up with their singing, that they found themselves at
the picturesque Chain Bridge Military Depot, four miles above
Georgetown, before they knew where they were.

“How far do you call it from here to the Great Falls?” inquired Ben.
Allison of one of the young officers of the post, as the steamer was
passing through the lock.

“Some call it nine miles only, but _I_ think it nine of the very longest
miles _I_ ever travelled,” laughingly answered the young man.

The boat passed the lock, steamed on her way, and soon left the Chain
Bridge behind.

They were now coming into a wild, romantic, and beautiful region of
country.

On the north side of the canal arose the lofty, dark gray rocks, like
pallisades, from every crevice of which grew the hardy evergreen, or
sprang the bright mountain rill. Along the foot of this rocky precipice,
at equal distances, nestled the picturesque huts of the pickets, each
hut built of rough logs, with the bark on, and thatched with evergreen
boughs of fir, pine or cedar, and having in front its little camp-fire,
and its group of three or four soldiers.

As the little steamboat glided past these stations, the picnickers
cheered these picket guards, and pelted them well with apples, oranges,
cocoa nuts, poundcakes, and packets of newspapers.

And the pickets in return cheered them, and threw into their boat hares,
quails, and partridges, that they had killed in that country, so
abounding in game.

All this was on the right hand of the way, and north side of the canal.

On the opposite, or south side, and divided from it only by the narrow
tow path, rolled the broad river, and beyond that arose the wooded hills
of Virginia, now gorgeous in the variegated hues of autumn foliage.

“I think this is the most delightful season for a picnic excursion of
this sort, for really the summer is as much too hot as the winter is too
cold for an outdoor party of pleasure. What do you think, Mr.
Billingcoo?” inquired Elfie of the exquisite, who was standing by her
side, as she gazed on the beautiful scenery, and basked in the genial
sunshine.

“I think you are quite wight, Mith Fielding, and I quite agwee with you.
It ith a gweat pity Mith Wothenthal could not be induthed to join uth.”

“Isn’t it now! And she would have prevented me from coming if she could
have done so! The idea of any one imagining danger in this excursion! I
wonder where the danger is to come from! Here is a line of picket guards
on one side of us and the river on the other. I should like to know how
the guerrillas, even if they were in the neighborhood, could pass
either. I wish they would for my part! I should enjoy a smart skirmish
with Monck and his men! Heigh-ho! there is no such good luck. Our picnic
excursion is going to be just as tame a party of pleasure as though we
were in the pipinest times of peace. I tell you, Mr. Billingcoo, as far
as my experience goes, this war’s a sell, like most other things in
life.”

“Weally now? you don’t mean it!”

“I do. Here it has been going on for more than three years, and I have
been living all this time at what they call ‘the seat of war,’ and I
haven’t seen one great battle or even one little skirmish yet!” grumbled
Elfie.

“And do you weally with to witneth an engagement, Mith Fielding?”

“I really do.”

“How would an engagement thealed with a wedding wing do, in lack of an
engagement with the enemy?” lisped the exquisite, caressing his
moustache.

“If you like to talk rubbish, Mr. Billingcoo, there are some young
ladies at the other end of the boat who will listen to you with the
utmost patience all day long,” said Elfie, coldly.

“Weally, now? Ith that tho? But thuppothe I pwefer your company?”

“Then you will have to talk sense or be silent.”

“Mith Fielding, you are cwuel.”

“Mr. Billingcoo, you are absurd!”

“Tho I’ve heard. I wonder if it ith weally twue. I will go and athk my
grandmamma,” said the young gentleman, coolly playing with the tea-rose
in his button-hole, and sauntering off to join the lively old lady, and
leaving Elfie to wonder whether she had not got the worst of it in the
word fencing.

So the boat glided along, on that delightful morning, through the wild
and picturesque scenery of the Upper Potomac.

And our excursionists, notwithstanding that they were on a party of
pleasure, really enjoyed themselves.

It was yet early in the day, when they reached the Great Falls of the
Potomac, where the mighty river, rushing on between huge precipices,
clothed with evergreen woods, falls into a vast basin, or cauldron,
where, among great, jagged rocks, it roars and foams in frightful eddies
and whirlpools.

In that dry, Indian summer weather, the river was so low at the falls,
that any brave and dexterous leaper, who would not mind risking life and
limb, by springing, from rock to rock, across the whirlpools, might have
passed dry-shod from shore to shore.

The boat stopped there.

The military officer in charge of the commissary depot came down from
the block-house to see the visitors.

After bowing to the ladies, and shaking hands with Mr. Allison, who was
his old acquaintance, and learning that the visitors were a company of
picnickers on a party of pleasure, he courteously invited them all to
come on shore, and accept such hospitality as his quarters were able to
afford.

But, knowing from personal experience that the accommodations of the
block-house were not of the most tempting description, Allison, on the
part of the company, thanked the captain, declined the invitation, and
pressed him, instead, to join them at their lunch, and accompany them
afterwards as guide in their rambles through the magnificent scenery of
the place.

The captain readily agreed to this proposition, and then eagerly
inquired if they had brought the morning papers along.

“Lots of them,” answered Allison, laughing. “I thought of that before I
came away. I knew that the most acceptable offering I could bring to men
stationed at these sequestered outposts would be the daily papers. I
knew it would be too early for the newsboys; so before reporting myself
at the parsonage, where our party assembled to start, I went the rounds
of the printing-offices and astonished the printers by buying up the
morning papers by hundreds. And we have been distributing them to the
picket guards all along our way. And great gifts our boys thought them,
I assure you. However, don’t be alarmed; we have saved enough for you.”

And so saying, Allison handed over a packet of newspapers, that was as
welcome to the officer in command of this outpost, as ever was news from
home to an exile abroad.

Meanwhile, with laughing and jesting, and much merriment, the picnickers
were leaving the boat.

The hampers were brought on shore; a nice, high spot, a natural opening
in the forest, was selected; the cloth was laid on the dry, burnished
grass, and the feast was spread—a light repast of fruits, cakes and
wines, for it was yet too early to think of dinner.

“But how about the guerrillas? Heard or seen anything of Monck and his
band of brigands, lately?” inquired Mr. Allison of the captain, as they
all gathered around the luncheon, and sat down upon the grass.

“Not a breath, not a sign of them for many weeks past,” answered the
officer.

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear that. I shouldn’t like to have a raid
made upon our party to-day.”

This was said jestingly, and the captain laughed as he replied:

“Oh, no fear of that. The guerrillas keep far enough away from our
neighborhood. ‘All quiet along the Potomac,’ I do assure you.”

So in the evergreen wood they chatted, and jested, and laughed over the
prolonged luncheon.

At length they all arose from the grass, and began to prepare for their
ramble. The ladies hoisted their parasols, the gentlemen put on their
wide-awakes, and everybody asked everybody else—

“Where shall we go first?”

“Have you ever seen the Lady’s Leap?” inquired the captain.

“No—never,” answered a score of voices.

“Nor the Devil’s Dripping Pan?”

“No.”

“Nor the Eagle’s Eyrie?”

“No, for no one but myself of this company has ever been here before,”
answered Allison for all his party.

“Then we had better visit them in turn,” counselled the captain.

And everybody answered—

“Yes.”

And the whole party, led on by the captain and Mr. Allison, set out on
their excursion.

They went first to the Lady’s Leap, a lofty rock overlooking the Falls,
where a lovesick girl was reputed to have taken a fatal leap into the
river below.

Next they visited the Devil’s Dripping Pan, a great basin of rock nearly
circular in form.

Finally they took a look at the Eagle’s Eyrie, the highest point of land
within many miles of the place.

And then, fatigued with their long ramble, they returned to their boat
to rest.

Now, had the programme of the excursion been carried out to the letter,
a great mischance might have been averted. But it was not.

Elfie, at least, seemed possessed by the evil one, who inspired her with
a love of adventure. She would not hear of terminating the excursion at
the Great Falls. It was a glorious afternoon, and having visited the
most striking scenes around the Falls, she wished to go farther up the
river.

The captain, who had returned with them on the boat, sided with Elfie.

“It would be a pity,” he said, “to turn back without having seen the
fine scenery above. Why, you might even run up as high as the Point of
Rocks—a magnificent view.”

“To be sure we might,” said Elfie; “and even if we should be late in
returning, there will be moonlight to come home by. It will be perfectly
delightful.”

“And we have everything along to make us comfortable,” said Allison.

In fact, when the extension of their expedition was once fairly and
broadly proposed and discussed, it was unanimously agreed upon.

And it was decided that they should immediately start for the upper
river, should stop and dine at the Point of Rocks, and then return home
by moonlight.

To be sure Elfie felt a few twinges of conscience when she thought how
great would be Erminie’s anxiety at her prolonged absence, but Elfie,
with a mental jerk, exclaimed to herself:

“Bother! if she shouldn’t be worrying about me, she would be worrying
about somebody else—some dying soldier in the hospital, some starving
refugee from the South, or some condemned criminal in his cell. It’s all
the same to her.”

And so the picnickers bade adieu to their new friend, the commander of
the block-house, and their boat steamed away up the canal for the Point
of Rocks.

Above the Falls the scenery was much finer than it was below. The river
was narrower, and higher; and the huge frowning precipices on each shore
darker and loftier.

The company, with their lately exuberant spirits somewhat toned down by
the fatigues of the day, no longer sang jubilant Union songs with
uproarious choruses; but sat silently enjoying the beauty of the scene,
or quietly conversing with each other, or listening to Mr. Billingcoo,
who, with his guitar in his hands and his eyes turned up, reclined on
the deck and sung lispingly to his own accompaniment one of Thomas
Moore’s sentimental songs:

                 “Row gently here, my gondolier,
                   Tho thoftly wake the tide,
                 That not an ear, on earth, thall hear
                   But herth to whom we glide.
                 Ah, did we take for Heaven above
                   But half the painth that we
                 Take day and night for woman’th love,—
                   What angelth we thould be!”

So he sang the whole song through, dwelling upon the last word and
lingering on the last note with his fingers on the chords of the
instrument and his eyes fixed on the clouds in the sky, like one
possessed; until Elfie awoke him with this criticism:

“It is very fine indeed, Mr. Billingcoo, only it would take a very
powerful effort of imagination to transform this matter-of-fact
steam-packet to a Venetian gondola. However, I really think we have the
advantage of your gondolier. For we are gliding by the most beautiful
scenery in the whole world, and he appears to have had nothing better in
that way than narrow canals and high stone walls.”

“Mith Fielding, have you no thentiment at all?” pathetically inquired
the injured minstrel.

“None whatever. Nature seems to have been out of the article when she
formed me,” answered Elfie.

“Oh, do, Mr. Billingcoo, sing another sweet thing like that!” pleaded a
poetical young lady.

“And do, Mr. Billingcoo!” chimed in a chorus of others.

And the troubadour suffered himself to be entreated and sang lispingly
several other “sweet things,” to the accompaniment of his guitar—all of
which the young ladies warmly applauded.

So glided away the glorious Indian Summer afternoon; and as the sun was
sinking to his splendid setting, the steamer neared the Point of Rocks.

“We had better stop here. This is a more convenient place to land and
dine than we could find without going on some distance above the Point.
And besides it is really growing late,” said Mr. Allison.

The company eagerly assented to the plan, and the boat was stopped where
the canal passed under the shadow of a great precipice crowned with pine
woods.

“If we can get to the top of this rock, there is a fine table land well
protected from the wind, which I find is rising, and well shaded from
the sun by pine trees, and also commanding one of the most magnificent
panoramic prospects in the country. That table land will be an excellent
place to dine,” exclaimed Mr. Allison, while he and his friends were
getting ready to leave the boat.

They found a way to the top of the steep; and the gentlemen climbed
carefully, helping the ladies up along with them.

Their attendants followed with the hampers of provisions.

When the whole party arrived at the summit they found a level piece of
ground covered with dry grass, and encircled except upon the river side,
with a girdle of pine trees.

“It seems made for the very purpose we are about to put it to,” said the
lively old lady, as she sank panting, but joyous upon the ground.

“Oh, what a stupendous—what an overpowering breadth of view!” exclaimed
Elfie, in honest wonder and admiration, as she reached the summit and
looked around, letting her eyes rove from East to West and from North to
South. “I feel now for the first time in my life that I actually live on
the outside of the earth’s surface; and I see for myself that it is
really round; and I even begin to realize that it is a vast globe
rolling through the immensity of space!”

“It looks dreadfully lonely though,” observed a young lady, with a
shudder.

“Yes—what a solitude! Far as the eye can reach on every side a forest of
autumn foliage, with only here and there a grey rock looming up, and the
river rolling deeply through it all. Not a house, not a chimney, nor
even smoke, to indicate human habitations near!”

While the company were gazing upon the vast panorama around them, and
descanting upon its beauties, some of the attendants were building fires
on the ground, hanging kettles over the blaze, and putting the hares,
quails and partridges, which were already dressed for the gridiron, upon
the coals; others were laying the table-cloth and arranging the dinner
service.

Mr. Allison having seen to the careful transportation of his costly
wines, now joined the group on the edge of the precipice.

Looking down upon the chaos of grey rock below them he smiled and
quoted:

“‘The ragged rascals rage round rugged rocks.’ Now, I wonder what on
earth put that choice specimen of ingenious alliteration into my head?”
he laughingly inquired.

“The ‘wugged wockth’ of courthe,” lisped Mr. Billingcoo.

“Yes; but where are the ‘ragged rascals?’” laughed Allison.

“Vewy twue! Here are the ‘wugged wockth,’ but _where_ are the ‘wagged
wathcalth?’” repeated the dandy.

The question was answered by a yell more terrible and ferocious than
ever startled a sleeping backwoods settlement when a tribe of ruthless
savages woke it up to slaughter.

And forth from the cover of the pine woods leaped a band of fierce
brigands, brandishing their bayonets.




                               CHAPTER X.
                      AS THE LION WOOS HIS BRIDE.

          So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
          So light to the saddle before her, he sprung.—SCOTT.


One amazed and startled look assured the party that the guerrillas were
upon them.

Some of the young ladies fell upon their faces, screaming with terror.

Others turned to fly, but were met and opposed by the bayonets of the
guerrillas, who fenced them on all sides.

Only Elfie stood her ground. She placed her back against the bole of a
pine tree and called those frantic girls around her, saying:

“Stand fast! Stand firm! it is the best way—it is the only way!”

“To arms! gentlemen all! Let us die in defence of the ladies!” shouted
valiant little Mr. Mim, drawing his slender sword from his cane and
throwing himself before the group of young ladies who had now gathered,
frightened and trembling, around Elfie as their queen.

Not another man followed his example.

“Surrender, you blasted Yankees, before we make crows’ meat of you!”
shouted a gigantic guerrilla, who seemed to be the leader of the hand,
leaping into the centre of the area, followed by many of his men.

Elfie stooped and whispered to her chivalric little champion.

“Mr. Mim, resistance is quite vain! You will only get yourself cut to
pieces by these wretches! Throw down your sword!”

“Miss Fielding, I will be cut into ten thousand flinders before they
shall come at you and the other ladies!” cried the little hero.

“These are Goldsborough’s guerrillas; and the giant who is leading them
is the savage Mutchison, his second in command. I know him by his
picture in the illustrated papers. Give me your dirk to defend myself,
and then surrender, Mr. Mim.”

“My dirk! Certainly, if you want it, Miss Fielding; but I will never
surrender!” said the little knight, beginning to disengage the required
weapon from its resting-place. Then he had to let it go in a hurry, and
throw himself upon his guard; for the colossus whom Elfie had called
Mutchison was leaping towards him, brandishing his sabre.

Little Mim met and parried the stroke that was aimed at him.

And then followed several rapid passes. But the combat was very unequal.
Mim and Mutchison, as to their respective sizes, were like David and
Goliath. And poor tiny Mim had no miraculous sling! When they had
crossed swords several times, Mutchison sang out:

“Yield, you little fool!”

“Never!” shouted Mim, parrying the strokes as well as he could, and
watching for a chance to run his gigantic antagonist through the body.

“Surrender, you blamed idiot! I don’t want to kill such a midge as you!”
cried the guerrilla, without ceasing to lay on.

“Then you needn’t; but take care of yourself, for I want to kill
_you_!—Ah, ha!” exclaimed Mim, as he found his opportunity and ran his
rapier an inch or two into the guerrilla’s flesh.

“Here goes then, blame you! I was only playing at first; I am fighting
now!” exclaimed the angry guerrilla.

There were a few more rapid passes, and then Mutchison sent the rapier
flying from Mim’s hand, and with a sweeping back stroke struck him under
the knees, and brought him suddenly to the ground.

For the first time Elfie screamed, and covered her eyes.

“Now beg for quarter, you cursed little idiot!” roared the guerrilla,
with his foot upon the small hero’s chest.

“Never! I’ll die before I’ll ask my life from you!” answered Mim,
defiantly.

“Well, you’re a spirited little gnat, that’s certain! And I’ll give you
your life. Get up!” laughed Mutchison, removing his foot from Mim’s
chest, and turning away to look after his men.

Elfie stooped to raise her fallen champion.

“Oh Mim! Mim, dear, are you hurt?” she said, giving him her hand to
assist him in rising.

“No—I’m furious! Let me up and at him!” exclaimed the mite, struggling
to his feet and looking about for his rapier.

“But, dear Mim, you can’t—you mustn’t! You stand in the position of a
paroled prisoner now. The man spared your life!”

“I didn’t ask him! and I’ll cut off his head!”

“So you shall the minute you are at liberty to do so; but now you must
keep your implied parole,” said Elfie, holding him fast; for she was
really fond of the brave little fellow, in a sisterly sort of fashion,
and she could not bear that he should recklessly and uselessly fling
away his life.

Meanwhile Mutchison turned to his band, who now filled the whole area.

“Hoi, my men! No bloodshed! Disarm these dainty gentlemen without
hurting them! afterwards we will know what to do with them!” roared the
guerrilla leader.

No need to caution the men against bloodshed! There was nothing to
provoke the most wanton to it! Little Mim, to his everlasting honor and
glory, had been the only man to show fight. The others had not even made
a pretence of resistance. Where would have been the use?

              “What could they ’gainst the shock of hell?”

The picnic party numbered about thirty-five persons, of whom eighteen
were ladies. There were, then, but seventeen gentlemen; and against them
two hundred fierce guerrillas!

Successful resistance was clearly impossible, and the picnickers yielded
without a blow!

“Come!” said Mutchison, striding into the midst of the area and gazing
around upon his “ragged rascals.” “Come! I think the first thing to be
done is to exchange clothing with these well-dressed gentlemen, as far
as they will go; and those among you, my brave boys, who don’t get a
nice garment, shall have its equivalent in money or jewelry, of which I
suppose there is no lack among the company present.”

A shout of approbation from the band responded to this speech.

“I think I see a gentleman there whose elegant holiday attire seems to
have been made especially for me!” said Mutchison, indicating the tall,
athletic form of Mr. Montgomery Fitz Smithers, who, not feeling elated
by this distinguished notice, retired behind his companions and squatted
down out of sight.

“But the ladies must withdraw while we make our toilet. Here, Carter,
you and Gates march these girls to the other end of the woods and guard
them; and, hark you! if any man of you attempts to kiss one of them
until I give the word—dash him! I’ll hang him as high as Haman!”

Two guerrillas stepped out from the crowd, and, with fixed bayonets
drove the young ladies, like a flock of sheep, to the opposite edge of
the pine woods.

No one resisted, not even Elfie; for she had no desire to remain and
witness the interchange of good offices between the guerrillas and the
gentlemen of her party.

“And now to business! I don’t like to inconvenience you, my young
friends, but necessity has no law! and really our necessities are very
great—none of us having had a change of linen for two months past!” said
Mutchison.

Again I say that successful resistance was clearly impossible.

The guerrillas began to strip and throw their foul rags in a nauseous
heap in the middle of the ring.

And the unlucky young men had to divest themselves of their elegant
festive dresses. Their fine black broadcloth coats and trousers, their
glossy satin vests, their pure white linen shirts, their hats, shoes,
socks, neckties, pocket handkerchiefs, gloves, scarf pins, studs,
watches, chains and purses were all taken from them and distributed
among the guerrillas.

And then they were ordered to clothe themselves with the wretched slough
just cast by these bandits.

And it was at once ludicrous and lamentable to see these unhappy youths
poking and picking about with sticks in the heap of rank rags, in search
of the least objectionable, where, upon examination, every one seemed
worse than the others.

“Come, come,—don’t be so hard to please or you will take cold! These
clothes were worn by us long enough without complaint! Thunderation! why
don’t you make haste and dress yourselves?” roared Mutchison.

And the miserable young men had no alternative but to obey, and clothe
themselves from the odoriferous mound before them.

The greater number of the poor fellows submitted ruefully enough to this
degrading transformation.

Only Mr. Allison bore the mischance with philosophy.

“There are worse misfortunes at sea!” he said, as he invested himself in
a nondescript garment of which it was almost impossible to tell the
original form or material, and which now hung about him like sea-weed.
“‘A little water clears us from this deed!’ In other words, when we get
back home, a warm bath and a change of dress will make us all right!” he
added.

“Come you! brother giant, I’m waiting for you!” impatiently cried
Mutchison to Fitz Smithers, who, with Billingcoo was putting off the
evil hour of undressing as long as possible.

“Come! Blazes, men! will you make haste, or shall I help you?”

Fitz Smithers sprang a yard from the ground in his fright, and then
began nervously to strip himself.

“And you, sir! what are _you_ about? Here are several of my poor fellows
waiting for your clothes! Off with them instantly!” thundered Mutchison,
addressing himself to the afflicted dandy, who would rather have died
than disrobe.

“Oh lor! oh dear! I can’t—indeed I can’t! I——” whimpered Billingcoo.

“Oh! you can’t, can’t you? Here, Covington—here’s a young gentleman not
used to waiting on himself—wants his valet. Come and help him to
undress,” shouted Mutchison.

A short, stout, bull-necked, black-muzzled guerrilla came forward to
execute the order, and looked around for the victim.

“There, that dainty darling with the rose stuck in his button-hole,”
said the leader.

“Oh, don’t! Oh, pleathe don’t! I’ll pay for them. I’ll ranthom them. I
will indeed. My monthly pay will be due in two or three dayth, and when
I get it, I will thend you the money from Wathington. Indeed I will,
general. I’m a man of honor,” pleaded Billingcoo.

“Take off his coat!” roared Mutchison.

“Oh, don’t touch me with thuch thocking dirty handth; I’ll let you have
my coat,” said the poor fellow, carefully removing the tea-rose from his
button-hole, and handing over the garment, “but leave me the retht of my
clotheth, do, now, general, and I’ll thend you lotht of money from
Wathington.”

“Take off his trousers! You see he can’t do it for himself!” thundered
Mutchison.

The black-muzzled approached to obey.

“No, don’t! don’t come too near me! You are thuch a thocking nuithanth!”
cried the exquisite, shrinking in disgust. “I will give you my panth,
and they are quite new—bought for thith occathon. But leave me my under
garmenth. Do, general. Do leave me my under garmenth. For dethenthy’s
sake, you know. Do, now, general!” pleaded the poor fellow, with tears
in his eyes.

“I am no more a general than you are a man, you nincompoop. I am one of
Colonel Goldsborough’s captains, that’s all. Here, Covington, peel
him—peel him!”

“Oh, no, no, no! don’t touch me with thothe awful handth! Take all—take
everything, mitherable man that I am!” wept the dandy, throwing off one
garment after another, to the great amusement of his companions, who,
having completed their exchange of dress, now forgot their own miseries
in watching the ludicrous distress of Billingcoo.

When, with shivering frame and chattering teeth, he at length approached
the mound of rags to clothe himself, and began to poke about in it with
a stick to find something possible to put on, suddenly burst into a
flood of tears, exclaiming:

“I wouldn’t mind their being tho wagged, but they are tho thockingly
unclean, and tho—tho—_inthecty_!”

“Never mind their being _insecty_, Billingcoo. There are worse
misfortunes at sea,” repeated Allison.

While the miserable youth was investing his dainty person in these
revolting garments, there was a shout among the guerrillas near, and one
of them exclaimed:

“There is another fellow who hasn’t peeled himself, Captain!”

Mutchison turned and saw little Mim standing at the foot of the great
pine tree where Elfie had ordered him to remain, for this champion would
no more have disobeyed his queen than would the renowned Knight of La
Mancha the fair lady of Toboso.

“Oh, my plucky pigmy! Let him alone, I say! I won’t have him touched! He
deserves to keep his clean clothes for showing so much spirit. And dash
me if I don’t hang the first man that lays a finger on him!” roared the
giant.

Then turning about, he shouted, until his voice reached the other end of
the wood:

“HOI! Carter! Gates! march the ladies back again! We’re dressed to
receive them!”

And as the young ladies, driven before the fixed bayonets of the two
guerrillas, approached the scene, they gazed upon their late companions
with ludicrous consternation.

Scarcely a gentleman of the party was recognizable. All were in rags
that hung about them in shreds like strings, fringes, tags—anything but
clothes. Some had hats with a rim, but no crown, others crowns, but no
rim; no one had a whole tile, and even those who were favored with half
a one had no shoes, and those who had shoes had no hats. Some had
trousers whose ragged legs dangled just below their knees, but no coats;
others had apologies for coats, but nether garments of which the less
said the better. And all pervaded with an atmosphere that would have
driven away any set of ladies not marched in at the point of the
bayonet.

Some of these victims shrunk out of sight in the crowd, as their fair
friends drew near; others turned the mischance into a joke. Poor
Billingcoo, who was in the worst plight of all, because he had had the
last pickings of the rags, tried to hide himself from Elfie’s laughing
eyes, but could not succeed.

“Oh, Mith Fielding,” he cried, with the tears running down his face,
“don’t look at me! Turn away your eyeth, for they break my heart!”

At this Elfie burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter, in which she
was joined by all her companions, whose sense of the ludicrous, for the
time being, overcame their terrors.

“Oh, grandma! thee how they laugh at me! And who can blame them? for
only thee what a guy fox the wretcheth have made of me!” wept
Billingcoo.

“Don’t be a simpleton, Lew. And don’t call bad names. Thank Providence
that you’ve saved your life with the loss of your clothes,” said the old
lady.

Here the voice of Mutchison roared above all other noises:

“Hoi! Grinnel! Have the dinner dished up! we’ll dine sumptuously on the
fare provided by our entertainers, the picnic party! And afterwards
we’ll have a dance, for I see they’ve got a band here. HOI! you nigger
minstrels! Tune up your instruments. We’ll march to our meals to the
sound of music! Come! strike up!”

The terrified darkies, either knowing no better or forgetting in their
fright all they ought to have remembered, struck up—“Hail Columbia.”

“Not that! Not that! dash you! What do you mean, burn you? ‘Dixie!’ play
‘Dixie!’” thundered Mutchison.

The panic-stricken musicians obeyed as well as they could, and struck up
“Dixie,” though in rather a quavering and uncertain style.

“Come, gentlemen and ladies, now to dinner, and afterwards to the dance.
Boys, you who are in evening dresses, each select the lady of his choice
and lead her gallantly. And that reminds me! My brave little knight of
the pigmies, take the lady you would have died to defend—you see no harm
has happened to her—and conduct her to dinner!

                         ‘_None_ but the brave,
                         None _but_ the brave,
                 None but the BRAVE deserve the fair!’”

Before Mim could reply, Elfie, to keep him out of mischief and also to
escape the escort of any of the guerrilla hand, seized his hand firmly
and drew it through her arm.

“Age before beauty! And I would not be remiss in courtesy. I have a
grandmamma of my own somewhere down in Dixie!” exclaimed Mutchison,
dancing up to the old lady, tucking her under his arm and leading the
way to the dinner table, followed by Elfie and Mim, and members of the
guerrilla band leading young ladies, who were too much frightened to
offer any sort of opposition.

“Now don’t be scared, girls. Take it coolly as you can. Bless your
hearts, these men aint agoing to hurt a hair of your heads. And this
adventure with guerrillas will be something for you to talk about to
your grandchildren when your hair is as gray as mine is now,” said the
lively old lady, as she settled herself comfortably upon a little
hillock of dry grass that Mutchison had found for her, near the
table-cloth where the feast was spread. And such a feast!

There were oysters, fish and game; baked and boiled meats; poultry;
pastry; canned fruits; confectionary; ale, wine and brandy.

Such “gentlemen” as had ladies on their arms gathered around the outer
edge of the “spread”—a gentleman and lady sitting alternately.

Before seating himself, Mutchison looked about and thought he saw great
discontent among the famished members of his band who were left outside
of this favored circle around the table-cloth, and so he sang out:

“Boys! there are provisions enough in the hampers, boxes and barrels
over there around the cooking fires, to feed the whole band. Away with
you and help yourselves!”

The starved ragamuffins needed no second bidding, but started off en
masse for the reserved stores.

The dinner at which Mutchison presided, went off very merrily for the
guerrillas; not so very much so for the picnickers.

Mutchison drank a great deal more of Allison’s choice brandy than was
good for him; and towards the last of the feast he lost his temper, and
began to swear at the waiters and bully the musicians; and then he
apologized to the ladies for forgetting their presence, laying the blame
on his camp life, deprived of their refining influence.

The feast was very prolonged, and Mutchison and his boon companions
chose to linger still longer over their wine; but he would on no account
permit the ladies to retire. He had been too long debarred from their
delightful society to give it up easily, he said.

Meanwhile the sun had set; and Mutchison ordered some of his men to
light pine knots and hold them aloft, to illuminate the scene.

And a score or two of these primitive torches made the whole area
sufficiently light.

When at length the feast came to an end, Mutchison rose from his seat,
crying out;

“A dance! a dance! Strike up the Virginia reel, darkies! That is the
figure that will take in an unlimited number of performers. And here is
a natural hall large enough to allow a reel a quarter of a mile long.
And dash me to dust if every man-jack sha’n’t join! Take your partners,
gentlemen; I’ve got mine!”

And instigated by the very spirit of mischief, he seized the lively old
lady, who was too wise to resist, and trotted her off to the head of the
reel to open the ball.

“Come, my little miniature hero; don’t be backward! Bring the lady of
your worship along!” cried Mutchison.

And Elfie, to keep her little champion out of trouble, drew him into the
reel.

The guerrillas, with their unwilling partners, followed. And even the
wretched youth of the picnic party were compelled to join the orgies.

And a reel commenced, wild as the dance of witches in Kirk Alloway,
where old Nick was piper.

              “The mirth and fun grew fast and furious!
                  The piper loud and louder blew!
                  The dancers fast and faster flew!
              They reeled, they set, they crossed, they”——

Suddenly, in the midst of these orgies, a cheer was heard from the men
in the back ground. And an officer, mounted, and attended by his staff,
galloped up in the midst of the area.

“My traitor!” exclaimed Elfie, under her breath, as she recognized
Albert Goldsborough.

A very handsome man was this guerrilla chief—this licensed brigand, who
bore a colonel’s commission. He was taller and stouter than when first
presented to the reader; his hair and beard were of a darker and richer
auburn; his face and figure more martial and dignified than heretofore.

So Elfie thought as she covertly watched him.

He dashed into the midst of his band and raised his hand, exclaiming:

“Break up your bivouac! Boots and saddles! A squadron of the enemy’s
cavalry are out in search of us, and they have struck our trail!”

A yell of defiance responded to this announcement, as the men all
started to go in search of their horses, which were left tied in the
pine woods.

A few men, however, remained, guarding the prisoners.

“Leave these people to find their way home as they can! We cannot be
encumbered with them! And Mutchison! seize that girl and bring her along
after me! that girl in the claret-colored dress!” cried Goldsborough.

“Claret?” repeated Mutchison, looking around in perplexity; for he was
very considerably “fuddled.”

“Seize the girl in the red stuff gown, and bring her after me!” cried
Goldsborough, as he turned and rode off.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mutchison.

And without more ado he pounced upon Elfie, threw her over his great
shoulders and bore her off, she screaming and struggling violently, in
the direction taken by Goldsborough.

Little Mim sprang instantly to the rescue, gave chase, overtook the
giant, and attempted to stop him by seizing his leg. The act nearly
threw the guerrilla down, but he quickly recovered himself, whirled
around, and with the iron handle of his sword aimed a blow on the head
of Mim, which struck the little hero, bleeding and senseless, to the
ground.

“Oh, you villain! I’ll have you hanged for that!” screamed Elfie.

“Oh no, you won’t! I’ll give you a better sweetheart than that little
fellow!” laughed Mutchison, and he continued his flight, no one else
daring to stop him, until he reached a clearing in the pines where the
whole cavalry force of Goldsborough’s guerrillas were preparing to
mount.

Colonel Goldsborough was in the midst.

“Mutchison, set that girl on the horse behind me, and secure her to my
waist with these two straps!” said Goldsborough.

And Mutchison prepared to obey.

Now had Elfie been a very dignified young lady she would have been too
proud to resist where resistance was vain. But Elfie had more temper
than dignity. And so she fought and kicked and scratched and bit and
screamed and scolded with all her might and main, and left upon the face
of Mutchison marks of her teeth and nails that he would be likely to
carry to his grave.

“Thunderation! what a little tiger-cat! Look here, girl! if you leave
the prints of your fingers on my face in that style, the men will be
taking me for your husband, and the colonel wouldn’t like that!” laughed
Mutchison.

After much difficulty Elfie was conquered, and bound upon her seat
behind her captor, who put spurs to his horse and bore her off in
triumph!




                              CHAPTER XI.
                          A MOONLIGHT FLIGHT.

     “She is won! we are gone over bank, bush and scaur;
     They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar,
     So daring in love and so dauntless in war.
     Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?—SCOTT.


Having left orders for his men to scatter and spread themselves through
the forest and take different roads to their secret rendezvous, the
guerrilla colonel took the mountain path and flew over it at a reckless
rate, with as little regard to his captive’s cries as to his own neck.

Elfie was seated on the horse behind him and securely bound by a strong
leathern girdle that passed around her waist and was clasped in front of
his.

Elfie never ceased to struggle and to scold. Her arms were free and she
could reach his head, so she cuffed his cheeks and pulled his hair with
all her might and main. And she poured out scorn like lava on him.

But Goldsborough treated the pummelling and pulling as caresses, and the
scolding as compliments; indeed, he scarcely noticed the one or replied
to the other; until, after having reached the top of the mountain, they
began to descend into a deep wooded dell, by a path so narrow and
difficult that it was necessary to slacken speed.

“Unbind me! Put me down! Shame of manhood! how dare you treat me so?”
cried Elfie, furiously, seizing his ears and making her nails almost
meet through them.

“Blazes! what a little tigress she is, to be sure! I shall have to cut
her claws,” laughed Albert Goldsborough.

“I’ll cut your throat!” cried Elfie.

“Oh, no you won’t, my dear! You will love me too well. You’ll love me as
well as the Sabine girls loved the Roman youths who carried them off
against their wills, just as I am carrying you!” laughed Albert.

“I’ll see you hanged first!” fired Elfie.

“Of course you will, my dear!—around your neck! Come, come, Elfie! Stop
trying to tear my ears out by the roots, for I don’t think you’ll
succeed. And do be reasonable! You don’t know what a gay life we are
going to lead here in the green wood. Your most romantic dreams will be
realized. You’ll think that you have slipped out of the nineteenth
century and slid down into the twelfth. You’ll fancy yourself in Epping
forest, living with Robin Hood and his merry men—except that we don’t
wear _Lincoln_ green, Elfie; but Confederate gray. Come! shall I be your
Robin Hood? And will you be my maid Marion?”

“I’ll be your death!” blazed Elfie.

“Oh, no you won’t, my dear. You’ll do as I said before.”

“What are you going to do with me, you demon?”

“Marry you, my angel!”

“Marry me!” cried Elfie, nearly choking with rage.

“Yes, my dear. We have a ‘Friar Tuck’ in our band, who will gladly
solemnize the nuptial rites and dispense with the formality of a license
or a wedding ring.”

“And do you think—do you think, you matchless villain!” cried Elfie,
again seizing his ears with her nails and wringing them with all her
strength, “do you really think that I will consent to such an outrage?”

“Friar Tuck will dispense with the bride’s consent as well as with the
license, and the wedding ring!” answered Goldsborough, coolly.

“Oh, villain! I hope—I _do_ hope that neither steel nor ball may ever
save you from the halter!” gasped Elfie, giving his ears a most vicious
wring.

“See here, my girl, we are coming to the ford! and we must be careful!
Just give my ears a holiday for a few minutes, will you, while you draw
up your feet and fold your skirts up over your lap to keep them from
getting wet,” said Albert, as they emerged from the wooded gorge of the
mountain and descended to the banks of the river, now shining like a
stream of fluid silver, in the broad moonlight.

“I won’t! I don’t care if I do get wet, or drown either! I’d be glad to
drown, if I thought I could drown you with me!” exclaimed Elfie.

“See how she loves me! she is willing to meet death itself if shared
with me,” mocked Albert. “So here we go.”

And he plunged into the river.

Splash! splash! splash! they went through the water, making the foam fly
in every direction.

The gallant horse, heavily laden as he was, bravely breasted the
current, and reached the opposite shore in safety.

“Elfie, my darling, do you know why I made this last raid into
Maryland?” inquired the guerrilla, as they struggled up the slippery
bank.

“No, nor care, you miscreant!” snapped Elfie.

“Can’t you guess?”

“To burn barns, and steal cattle, and rob hen-roosts, I suppose,”
sneered Elfie.

“No. I went simply to fetch you, and for no other reason in the world,”
answered Albert.

“Me! How on earth did you know I was there?” inquired Elfie, thrown off
her guard by unbounded astonishment.

“By the same means through which I become acquainted with most events
that pass in Washington—by my spies. I learned that you were getting up
a picnic to go to the Great Falls. And I determined to intercept your
return.”

“Oh, the traitress! It was Alberta. It was no one but Alberta that
informed you. For I remember I mentioned to her at breakfast that
morning, that I wanted to get up a picnic to go up the river!”
indignantly exclaimed Elfie.

“Well, yes, it was Alberta who first told me of the intended excursion.
But she did not tell me the day it was to come off.”

“No, for the day was not fixed when she ran away, the ingrate, so she
could not have told you.”

“But one of my other spies, who was a member of your picnic party
_could_.”

“A spy in our picnic party! That is false, you villain! Albert
Goldsborough, have you become mendacious as well as thievish? The
members of our picnic party were loyal. We would have taken no others,”
angrily cried Elfie.

“As far as _you_ know,” laughed Goldsborough; adding: “Now, my dear, I
don’t mind telling you, because I never intend to let you go back to
report it, that there are no people in the world so profuse in their
expressions of loyalty as my spies in Washington!”

They were now ascending a steep and narrow path, leading from the river
banks up to the rocks above, and slippery and dangerous from the many
fallen leaves. Albert Goldsborough was riding very cautiously, leaning
forward over his horse’s neck to preserve the equilibrium of weight, and
guiding him carefully. Once or twice the horse slipped and stumbled, but
recovered himself immediately.

Elfie saw all this, and enraged by Goldsborough’s boast that he never
intended to let her go back, she recklessly set herself to overturn
horse and riders together. She was securely bound, you already know,
with a broad leathern girdle to Albert’s waist; but her limbs were all
free. So she raised herself as well as she could from her seat, and
laying hold of Goldsborough’s shoulders, pulled and hung back with all
her might to bring the weight behind, while she pummelled the horse’s
flanks to make him rear and lose his balance.

“What are you about, Elfie? Do you wish to make the horse fall!”
exclaimed Albert.

“That is just what I am trying to do, you villain! I don’t care if the
horse rolls over backwards, on to us, and we all go rolling over and
over each other, till we fall to the bottom of the precipice, a ball of
crushed bones!” screamed Elfie, pulling and tugging and kicking, and
doing all she could to effect her purpose; but in vain.

She made the horse slip and stumble, and shake his head impatiently when
he recovered himself; but that was all.

At last, breathless and exhausted, she ceased her efforts.

Albert turned his head and laughed at her.

“Why, my dear, this old horse is a veteran! He has been in too many
pitched battles, and in too many neck or nothing hunts—he has forded too
many rivers, climbed too many mountains, faced too many batteries, and
ridden down too many fixed bayonets—to be disturbed by trifles! And here
we are at the top of the mountain; so you needn’t resume your efforts to
pitch us down,” he added, as they reached the summit, and entered a
thick copse wood of cedars, where here and there grew gigantic forest
trees.

“I’ll make him dash your brains out against some of these trees!” cried
Elfie. And she tried another experiment. She raised herself in her seat,
screamed, halloed, shouted, and made the most unearthly noises to
frighten the horse and make him run away; but all to no purpose; and
once more she ceased for want of breath.

“How well you’ll sleep to-night, after all these violent exertions!”
laughed Albert Goldsborough; “and the good night’s rest will be about
all the good that you will obtain by the stupendous efforts. Bless you,
my dear, the old horse is used to the roar of battle and the thunder of
cannon! It isn’t likely that he is going to suffer himself to be annoyed
by your little two-penny trumpet!”

“I’ll take out every pin I have about me, and stick them up to their
heads in his hide!” screamed Elfie, beginning to do as she threatened.

“Try it. They’ll rust there before he takes any notice. Lord love you,
girl, what are pins to bayonets! He is used to having bayonets stuck
into him!” mocked the colonel.

“Albert Goldsborough! you basest of all base miscreants! where are you
daring to take me?” demanded Elfie, beginning to shake with her
increasing sense of shame and rage and terror.

“To the green wood, you fairest of all beauties! To the green wood,
though it would not be so very green at this season of the year if it
were not for the pines and cedars! To the green wood, to be married to
Robin Hood, by his chaplain Friar Tuck, and to be Robin’s Maid Marion,
and live among his merry men forever!”

“If I cannot succeed in killing you before I leave this seat, I’ll do it
afterwards! I will, as surely as I am my mother’s daughter!” fiercely
exclaimed Elfie, springing once more up from her seat, and seizing her
captor’s ears, and trying her very utmost to wring and tear them off.

At that moment the clatter of horse’s feet was heard behind, and the
next the huge form of Mutchison appeared, galloping rapidly after his
chief.

Goldsborough halted until his officer came up.

“What news?” demanded the colonel.

“Good! Our scouts come in and report that the enemy’s cavalry, out in
search of us, have gone off on a false scent, that I took care to have
laid for them. Our men have divided themselves in small parties and
taken separate roads, and will rendezvous at the Black Bear’s Pass, as
you ordered. But, good gracious, Colonel, now I look at you, have you
been in a battle?”

“No—except with this little wildcat here in which she has done all the
fighting!” laughed Goldsborough.

“Your ears are each one clot of gore!”

“I dare say, though they feel to me as if they were each one ball of
fire! See here, Mutchison—much as I dislike to restrain a young lady, we
shall have to confine her hands, or I shall not have an ear, or a lock
of hair left on my head! Take this pocket-handkerchief and tie her
hands.”

“Pity it hadn’t been done first, colonel! It would have saved your
beauty from being spoiled, and mine too. Thunderation! I would as leave
try to tie a catamount, with a thousand claws!” exclaimed Mutchison, as
he sought to secure the hands of Elfie, who fought, scratched, and bit
with so much effect that the guerrilla’s face and eyes came to great
grief before he succeeded in binding her.

After that they rode on more quietly through the woods, though Elfie did
not cease to use her tongue, even if she could not use her hands.

“Yes, you murderer! don’t think but what I’ll have you hanged for
killing Mim, for I’m _sure_ you have killed him!” Elfie exclaimed, for
the first time bursting into tears of passionate sorrow as well as of
rage.

“_That_ little tiny fellow! What if I did? You didn’t call _him_ a man,
did you?” chuckled Mutchison.

“Yes, you monster! a thousand times more of a man than you and your
master either, ever was!” sobbed Elfie.

“Why, he wasn’t bigger than one of my legs!”

“Don’t sneer at his size, you coarse brute! He had more spirit than all
your cut-throat, chicken-stealing tribe put together. You huge brutes,
if you have any soul at all, have it diluted with too much body to make
it worth anything!” cried Elfie, with hot scorn.

“Oh, come, now. Don’t be vindictive. If I did knock the little fellow on
the head, I promised you a bigger sweetheart, and you’ve got him,”
chuckled the guerilla.

“Mutchison, let this cease. I desire that Miss Fielding may be treated
with all the consideration possible under the circumstances,” said
Colonel Goldsborough, sternly.

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Then I must order myself accordingly,” muttered
the guerrilla to himself, but he raised his hat to his colonel in token
of obedience.

They rode on silently through the woods a little while longer, and then
Goldsborough said:

“We bivouac with the ‘Free Sword’ to-night, and to-morrow, if the road
should be clear, go on to our rendezvous at the Black Bear’s Pass. I
think that we are not very far from Corsoni’s encampment now, are we?”

“It is in a clearing in this forest somewhere, and I think that this
path leads to it, Colonel. We shall see in a little while,” answered
Mutchison.

“So we stop with the Free Sword, do we, to-night? And we shall see
Alberta! And if we do—” exclaimed Elfie, setting her teeth and drawing
in her breath.

“You’ll tear her eyes out if we leave your hands free,” laughed the huge
guerrilla.

“Mutchison!” exclaimed Colonel Goldsborough.

“I beg your pardon, Colonel. I will say no more,” replied the man.

And they pursued their way in silence, until the forest grew thinner,
and they seemed to be approaching a clearing.

“I see lights gleaming through the distance. Can they be the campfires
of the Free Sword?” inquired Goldsborough.

“Yes, Colonel, I think so,” answered Mutchison, as they emerged from the
thicket into a small, open space.

The next moment they came upon a picket guard, and were challenged.

“Who goes there?”

“Friends!” answered the colonel.

“Advance, friends, and give the countersign.”

“I don’t know your countersign, but you know me well enough, Robinson. I
am Colonel Goldsborough.”

“Very sorry, Colonel, but I can’t let you pass without the countersign.”

“I am on a visit to your chief, in answer to his repeated invitations.”

“Very sorry, Colonel, but it is as much as my life is worth to let you
pass.”

“Call the corporal of the guard, then, blame you.”

The word was passed for the corporal of the guard, who presently
appeared upon the scene.

“Here is Colonel Goldsborough wants to pass and doesn’t know the
countersign,” explained the picket.

“You know me well enough, Jenkins,” said Goldsborough, addressing the
petty officer.

“Yes, sir but I dare not pass you without my colonel’s orders, though.
If you will wait, I will send a messenger up to his quarters,” said the
corporal.

“Do, then, and be quick about it,” exclaimed Goldsborough, impatiently.

While waiting for the return of the messenger, Goldsborough looked about
with some curiosity, for this was a new encampment of the Free Sword, to
which his brother-in-arms had never been before.

He saw that they were in a very small clearing, where the trees had been
cut down to make room and furnish material for a picket’s hut, that
stood in the very midst of the small, open space. Before this hut was
burning a fire of brushwood, and around it were three or four guerrillas
at rest, beside the sentry on duty.

Presently the messenger returned in attendance upon the Free Sword, who
came in person to receive his brother-in-arms.

Vittorio Corsoni was not much changed in personal appearance since we
saw him last. Originally very dark in complexion, exposure to the sun,
wind and weather could not make him much darker, and he had the same
long, black curls, small, white teeth, and large, melancholy eyes—eyes
that had so mesmerized every woman that had ever come under their
influence, and so bewitched Alberta Goldsborough to her destruction, and
he had the same slight, agile and graceful figure that so reminded the
beholder of a tiger. He wore a uniform of black cloth, with a crimson
sash around his waist, a sword by his side, and a black wide-awake hat,
with a black feather, fastened with a great fiery carbuncle.

He walked briskly up to Goldsborough to embrace him after the Italian
fashion, and in doing so noticed the young lady on the horse behind him,
and he raised his cap to the lady before he offered to greet her
cavalier.

Albert bent low from his saddle to meet the advance of his friend, who,
after kissing him on both cheeks, started back, exclaiming:

“But, good Heavens, Goldsborough! what has happened to your ears? Have
they been torn off?”

“No,” laughed Albert; “they have been clawed off, clawed off by this
little catamount on the horse behind me!”

“Vittorio Corsoni, don’t you know me? I am Elfrida Fielding, your old
pupil.”

“Know you, fair lady? Perhaps not at first. I am glad to do so now.
Welcome to my poor camp,” said the Free Sword, removing his hat and
holding it in his hand.

“Colonel Corsoni, you used to be a gentleman. You will protect me, I
hope, from this miscreant who has torn me away from my friends and
brought me here.”

“Fair lady, we brothers-in-arms support each other in love as in war,”
said Vittorio gently.

“But he brought me here against my will!” cried Elfie, indignantly.

“Sweet lady, stratagem is as fair in love as in war.”

“But there was no stratagem. He brought me here by violence!”

“It was the violence of passion inspired by your too delightful beauty.
Gentle lady, you must forgive him,” answered Vittorio. And then, with a
deep bow, he turned away from Elfie, and, addressing Albert, inquired:

“Shall we move forward?”

“If you please, Corsoni,” answered Colonel Goldsborough.

And the party started—Albert Goldsborough letting his horse pace slowly
while Vittorio Corsoni walked by his side.

“I would dismount and walk with you willingly if I were not so burdened
and hampered,” laughed Albert.

“Burdened with beauty, hampered with happiness,” murmured Vittorio
gallantly.

But at the last words of his colonel, Mutchison had jumped off his
horse, the use of which he now respectfully pressed upon the Free Sword.

Vittorio laughed and accepted it, saying that it would enable him the
better to keep up with his companions.

“I might have come on horseback if I had thought of it; but the distance
was so short, and I was so eager to relieve you from the embarrassment
of being stopped by the guard, that it never occurred to me to get into
the saddle,” said the Free Sword, as he rode on beside his
brother-in-arms.

Their way lay again through the forest, until they came to another
little clearing, with another hut and another guard, at which the Free
Sword gave the countersign, and passed with his party.

Then they rode slowly on through the bushes while the two guerrilla
leaders conversed in a low tone about the plans of their next campaigns,
until they came to a grass-grown old road, on the other side of which
was a low stone wall and a rusty iron gate guarded by a small porter’s
lodge.

Before the gate paced a sentinel, and from the porter’s lodge, which was
turned into a guard house, gleamed a dim light.

Corsoni gave the countersign and passed his party into an area that
seemed once to have been the ornamented grounds of some magnificent
country seat.

A fine old avenue of elm trees led from the lodge to the distant
mansion, from the upper and lower windows of which gleamed dim lights.

All over the lawn, among dilapidated arbors, and dried-up fish ponds,
and dead flower beds, were scattered the rude, hastily constructed huts
of the guerrillas.

Here and there groups of horses, already saddled and bridled, were tied,
as if kept for use at an instant’s warning.

Passing all these, Corsoni led his party up to the mansion, a large,
two-story, double-fronted, white stone house, with basement and attic,
and with a porch running its whole width in front, supported by huge
stone pillars. A flight of stone steps led up to this porch, and to the
double hall doors.

A sentinel paced to and fro before the house.

Corsoni dismounted and called a guerrilla to take his horse.

Goldsborough unbuckled the belt that held Elfie to him, and beckoned
Mutchison to come and lift her off.

Elfie, who had not spoken since her vain appeal to Corsoni, suffered
herself to be removed in silence.

Goldsborough alighted and immediately unbound Elfie’s hands, saying:

“I beg your pardon for having ordered this, my darling, but if I had not
done so, I should have lost my scalp and my ears.”

The first use Elfie made of her freed hands was to dash her fists, one
after the other, into Goldsborough’s face.

He laughed and dodged the blows, and then took one of Elfie’s hands to
draw in his arm and lead her on.

But the enraged girl snatched her hand away, exclaiming:

“Go on! I will follow, since I must. And if I seem to yield now to
circumstances, it is only as the tiger crouches for a surer spring!
Albert Goldsborough, I will have your life for this!”

“The devotion of my whole life, Elfie,” he answered gravely.

Corsoni was standing at the foot of the stone steps waving his hands for
them to come on.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                           THE OUTLAW’S LOVE.

         I know not. I ask not if guilt’s in that heart;
         But I know that I love thee, whatever thou art.—MOORE.


They followed him up into the porch and through the double doors to a
broad, unfurnished central hall, where several guerrillas were on guard.

Four doors on the right hand and four on the left opened into rooms on
each side of this hall.

Corsoni led the way to the third door on the right hand, saying:

“My dear wife is in there. Had we not better consign Miss Fielding to
her care?”

“Thanks, yes! My fair travelling companion has been on horseback, riding
hard and exerting herself in other violent exercises for about six
hours; and must be greatly in need of aid and comfort just now,”
answered Goldsborough.

Corsoni opened the door and holding it open, bowed and said:

“Miss Fielding, my dear wife is in there. Will you enter?”

But before Elfie could answer, and indeed while Vittorio was still
speaking, Alberta herself came out, and taking Elfie in her arms, kissed
her on both cheeks, saying:

“Welcome to the greenwood, Elfie!” and drew her into the room.

It was a spacious apartment, with a wide fireplace. Over the fireplace
was a richly-carved mantel-shelf. In the wall above there was an old
fresco painting. A wood-fire burned on the hearth. Each side the chimney
were tall windows, reaching from floor to ceiling.

Every part of the room was dilapidated, and not by the gentle action of
time but by the merciless desecration of war. The beautiful figures in
the carved marble mantelpiece were chipped and broken off. The fresco
painting was scraped until its subject could not even be guessed at.

The glass in the windows was in many places broken and replaced by
pasteboard. The gorgeous historical paper that had once covered the
walls now hung in strips.

And the room was almost entirely unfurnished; floor and windows were
bare of covering. In one corner stood a rude, temporary bedstead, the
work of some guerrilla carpenter; and on it was laid a mattress and
pillows, with the redeeming accessories of clean sheets and blankets.
There was a rough table, supporting a tin basin and a stone pitcher of
water; with a clean towel laid over them. One low chair and two or three
rude three-legged stools completed the “conveniences” of the room.

Alberta led Elfie into this room, took the pillows off her bed, and put
them on the chair, one on the seat and the other against the back, and
made Elfie sit down and rest her bruised and tired frame.

“Alberta, had you any hand in this?” said Elfie, bursting into tears.

“In what, dear?” inquired the guerrilla’s wife, who was now stooping
over the fire, bringing the brands together with her naked hands,
because she had no tongs.

“With this outrageous act of bringing me off?”

Alberta made the fire blaze up cheerfully, and then answered:

“When I made my escape from Washington, I fell in with some of Albert’s
men, who guided me to their colonel. I found that he had been
instrumental in the deliverance of my dear Vittorio, who was then with
him. When Albert heard where I had been and whom I had seen, he had a
thousand questions to ask about you, all of which I answered as well as
I could. Among the rest I told him that you were planning a picnic to
the Great Falls. That was all I had to do with your abduction, Elfie.”

“Was that, really, all? Did you not encourage him in it?”

“No! At the time I spoke of the proposed picnic I had no idea that he
would dream of such a desperate deed as to cross the river and seize
you, as it were, from between the very teeth of the Federal forces! It
was a mad act; but he loves you madly, Elfie!” said the guerrilla’s
wife.

She then passed to the door and called one of her husband’s men, and in
a low tone gave him an order, and then she drew a stool to the side of
Elfie and sat down, saying:

“I am the only woman in the encampment, and I have to wait upon myself
or be waited on by men. I generally prefer the former. You will sup and
sleep alone with me to-night, Elfie, and I will keep you with me, and
guard you from annoyance until a chaplain can be found to marry you to
Albert, and give him the legal right to protect you.”

“Marry me to that guerrilla! Never! Never! It cannot be done legally
without my consent, and that they shall never have! The villain
threatened to find a minister who would dispense with the bride’s
consent, as well as with the marriage license and the wedding ring! But
oh, Alberta, you will not permit this outrage to be perpetrated under
your roof! You are a lady, or you were one once—at least, the daughter
of a gentleman. You will protect me!” exclaimed Elfie, losing, in the
failure of her physical strength, half her courage.

“I will protect you so far as I am able to do so. Be sure of that,
Elfie. But you do surprise me beyond measure, Elfie. I thought you loved
Albert Goldsborough,” said the guerrilla’s wife in amazement.

“Love that horse-stealing, house-firing vagrant!” indignantly exclaimed
Elfie.

Alberta passed coolly over these injurious epithets, which were
certainly as applicable to Vittorio Corsoni as they were to Albert
Goldsborough, and she answered calmly:

“You certainly loved him once, when he had done nothing to distinguish
himself, and if you truly loved him then, you love him still, for true
love knows no ‘shadow of turning.’”

“He whom I loved then was a gentleman, or I thought him such, not a barn
burner, not a hen-roost robber!” answered Elfie, contemptuously.

Again Alberta ignored the degrading terms that were applied to the
guerrilla chief; for in truth nothing on earth had power to move her
impassive nature, unless it were something nearly concerning Vittorio
Corsoni, her idolized lover-husband, and she said:

“Albert Goldsborough was destined by his parents and by mine to marry
me, and you knew it from the first, yet you saw him and loved him, and
won his love. Not that I regretted your success. I was very glad to be
well rid of my cousin, for I was fully determined to marry Vittorio
Corsoni, my beloved. But you took him away from me, only, it seems, to
cast him off from yourself. In truth, I cannot understand such
inconstancy,” she gravely added.

“You cannot! Do you suppose, then, that _my_ love can survive esteem,
and walk hand in hand with contempt?” said Elfie, scornfully.

“No, I do not. Nor has Albert Goldsborough done anything worthy of
contempt, but everything worthy of admiration.”

“Pouncing upon me, and carrying me off by main force against my will,
was among the rest of his admirable achievements, I suppose you think,”
sneered Elfie.

“Yes, for it was a brave deed.”

“Very brave, to kidnap a weak girl.”

“Yes, it was, for he seized that girl, as I said before, from between
the teeth of the enemy. Elfie, have you any idea what he risked when he
crossed the river for your sake?” gravely inquired Alberta.

“He risked the halter, I suppose, and I wish to goodness he had got it,”
answered Elfie, bitterly.

“Yes, he did, heartless girl. He risked capture and an ignominious death
for your sake. He risked all knowingly and willingly, for when, for love
of you, he crossed the Potomac, he knew that Scott’s Nine Hundred—and
_they_ are _your_ guerrillas, Elfie—were on the north side of the river
below the Monocacy, and that Rosenthal’s cavalry were on the same side
above the Monocacy, and that the scouts of one or the other force would
be sure to strike his trail.”

“Rosenthal’s cavalry!” echoed Elfie, passing over everything else in her
surprise at hearing this phrase.

“Yes, Rosenthal’s cavalry. You didn’t know that Major Rosenthal is in
command of the regiment in which he first enlisted as a private soldier,
did you?”

“Major Rosenthal! No.”

“That proves how much earlier and more accurate our information is than
yours.”

“Or how much better the devil is served than the Lord!” muttered Elfie.

“But our information is obtained for nothing from devoted friends, who
risk their lives to keep us posted as to the movements of the enemy, and
yours, when you get any, is purchased at high prices from mercenaries,
who sleep when they should watch, and invent fictions when they should
chronicle truths.”

“But Major Rosenthal! Did you say Major Rosenthal?” pursued Elfie, still
harping on Justin.

“Yes. He was promoted to a majority for gallantry in the field.”

“And he is in command of his regiment?”

“I told you so.”

“But how is that?”

“In the very last battle in which his regiment was engaged the colonel
was dangerously wounded, the lieutenant colonel was taken prisoner, and
the senior major killed; so that the command of the regiment devolved on
Major Rosenthal. His regiment was soon after ordered to W. And he is now
crossing the valley. Observe how early and how accurate is our
information. Now to get back to Albert Goldsborough. With Scott’s Nine
Hundred in Montgomery and Rosenthal’s cavalry in Frederick, your lover,
when he crossed the river for your sake rushed recklessly between two
fires.”

“I wish to Heaven the fires had closed upon him and made an end of him
and his horse-thieves then and there!” bitterly exclaimed Elfie.

“You don’t! If you ever loved him, you love him still. If you ever loved
him, you love him more than ever for the perils he has braved for your
sake,” said Alberta, positively.

“I tell you—” passionately began Elfie; but she was interrupted by a low
rap at the door.

“Come in,” said Alberta.

And the door opened and a young guerrilla entered, bringing in one hand
a kettle of hot water, which he sat down on the hearth before the fire,
and holding in the other hand a paper parcel.

“That is my good boy,” said Alberta, as she stirred the fire to make it
burn and keep the kettle hot—“that is my good boy! But, Gill, what shall
we do for tea? Use saffron root again?”

“No, ma’am! See here. Captain Mutchison sent you this with his
compliments,” said the young man whom Alberta called Gill, handing over
the paper parcel that he had held in his hand

“Tea! real tea!” said Alberta, holding the parcel up to her face and
gratefully inhaling its fragrance. “Oh, tell the captain I am ever so
much obliged to him. Elfie, child, I have not had a cup of tea since I
took one with Erminie at the parsonage. But I am very glad to have some
now, for your sake as well as mine.”

“I suspect that tea is a part of the spoils of our picnic,” replied
Elfie.

“Nothing in life more likely. Now do you know that circumstance actually
adds piquancy to its flavor!” exclaimed Alberta, as she went to an old
glass cupboard in a corner of the room and took from it a small tin tea
pot, in which she poured a portion of the tea, and afterwards filled it
up with boiling water and set it on the hearth to draw.

Meanwhile the young guerrilla, who had left the room, returned, bearing
a small rude pine table and a coarse crash table cloth, which he
arranged for supper.

Alberta took from her corner cupboard a few cracked cups, saucers and
plates, and set them upon the table, while her guerrilla waiter went out
and brought in a loaf of bread, a plate of broiled chicken and a paper
of loaf sugar.

“Gill, my boy, you are the prince of purveyors!” said Alberta, as she
received the good things and arranged them to her liking.

“All these with the compliments of Captain Mutchison,” said Gill, as he
delivered them over.

“Of course! spoils of our picnic,” exclaimed Elfie.

“And this,” said Gill, who had again flitted out empty-handed and now
flitted in with a canteen of fresh milk, “this with Abershaw’s
compliments.”

“Rich new milk for our tea! This is indeed a luxury. Where did it come
from, Gill?”

“Abershaw drove in a herd of cows this evening,” answered the boy.

“One would really think that we were living the border life of Scotland
in the olden time, when cow-stealing was the most popular profession
among the landed gentry and their retainers,” mused Elfie.

“Never mind. Don’t quarrel with your supper, my dear. When you have led
a guerrilla life as long as I have, you will learn to take what is set
before you and be thankful. Gill! is that thunder?” inquired Alberta, as
a low muttering sound was heard in the air outside.

“Yes, ma’am, there is an awful black cloud rising. The men think there
will be a storm—a great storm.”

“It is very late in the season for a thunder-storm. But then it has been
so unusually warm. Gill!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are all our men on this side the river?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And have all Colonel Goldsborough’s force re-crossed?”

“All ma’am.”

“Then I am glad the storm is coming up! The river will rise and the
fords be impassable, and so pursuit will be cut off, even if the enemy
should be so mad as to wish to ‘beard the lion in his den.’ You can
retire now, Gill.”

The young guerrilla pulled his forelock by way of making a bow, and then
left the room.

“Come, Elfie, draw up your chair,” said Alberta, as she set the teapot
on the table.

“I would like to wash my hands first,” said Elfie, holding up her
fingers.

“Good—HEAVENS!” exclaimed Alberta, in real, downright consternation.
“What have you been about, Elfie? Who have you been butchering? I am
accustomed to the sight of blood, but I never saw such a pair of hands
in all my life! What ever have you been doing with them?”

“I have been proving how well I love Guerrilla Goldsborough, and how
willing I was to be carried off by him. I have heard that it is
considered an ignominy for a man to lose his ears, and I knew that
Guerrilla Goldsborough deserved such ignominy; and I have been doing my
best to inflict it upon him!” replied Elfie, as she went to the wash
basin which Alberta had filled with water for her.

“You do not mean to say that you tried to tear his ears off with your
nails!” exclaimed Alberta, in amazement.

“If he has got any ears left it isn’t my fault,” replied Elfie,
defiantly, as she wiped her hands and sat down to the tea table.

“Well,” said Alberta, “I have sometimes had to look on while hamlets
were burning and spies hanging, but I could not have done anything like
that.”

Notwithstanding that Elfie had been seized and carried off by
guerrillas, and ought to have been in despair, she was not. On the
contrary, she was hungry; and so she made a very good supper, and with
very little assistance from Alberta, she cleared the table of everything
eatable on it.

Meanwhile outside the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, and the
rain poured.

It was not a storm to alarm any one who was not exposed to its fury; for
at that season of the year thunder and lightning could not be very
violent or dangerous. But the rain! Surely, since the deluge never had
rain fallen in such torrents.

“The fords will be impassable for a week,” said Alberta, exultingly, as
she went to the window and looked out and listened to the pouring,
dashing, lashing rain.

Elfie sighed deeply, thinking that the rise in the river would make
rescue for her all the more unlikely.

Alberta went to the door of her room and called Gill, who seemed to be
on duty in the hall outside.

“Take away this service, Gill,” she said.

And the youth, to make short work, stretched the door wide open and
lifted the table, with all upon it, and carried it bodily out of the
room.

Alberta and Elfie drew in their chairs to the fire.

“You do not know, Elfie, what a respite from anxiety it is to me to be
sure of one night’s undisturbed rest! This storm that is raging outside
will lull me to repose as the sweetest music in the world would fail to
do,” said Alberta, with a sigh of intense relief.

“But how and why?” inquired Elfie.

“Oh, because I know while the storm is raging and the rain is pouring
the river is also rising, and the fords will be impassable, and our camp
will be safe from attack for one night, and we may sleep in peace! Oh,
Elfie! unless you had lived as I have lived for the last three years, in
the midst of ‘war’s alarms,’ you could never realize what a blessed
relief there is in the feeling sure that we may sleep in peace for one
night!”

“Oh! Alberta, what a life for you—for you, a daughter of the house of
Goldsborough—reared in luxury and refinement! How can you bear it? Why
do you bear it? Why do you not accept Erminie’s offer, and seek refuge
with her?” earnestly inquired Elfie.

“Why? Do you ask me why?” exclaimed Alberta, and her cold eyes, fixed
upon the fire before her, dilated and burned, and her impassive face
glowed as she replied:

“My lot is cast with his and with his cause!”

“Oh, Alberta! when you were in Washington, you told us that you had
taken the oath of allegiance, in good faith, and that you meant to keep
it! And here I find you among the guerrillas again! sympathizing with
them, aiding and comforting them in every way! Have you no respect for
your oath, no regard for yourself, no fear even of your God?” inquired
Elfie.

A strange smile passed over the face of the guerrilla’s wife; still
gazing straight before her into the fire, she answered, slowly:

“I have one idol, one religion, one rule of action! Elfrida, nearly four
years have passed since I left all, to share the fortunes of Vittorio
Corsoni, my beloved! Dark enough those fortunes have been, Heaven knows!
But I have never repented becoming his wife—never, Elfie! Neither of us
have known a shadow of turning in our attachment to each other. And now
I would not exchange my condition as the outlaw’s wife to be the most
honored lady in the land! Nor would he part with me for a kingdom! We
are all in all to each other. He is more to me than ever lover or
husband was to woman before! I am more to him than ever was sweetheart
or wife to man! We are one; we can never be divided. Nothing—no, nothing
shall ever part us! not life, not death, not eternity! In all the gloom
and horror of our downward course—and downward it is, Elfie—downward
even to the depths of hell!—we have the one, great, deep joy of knowing
that we go on together, inseparable forever! Yes, on earth or in hades,
inseparable forever! I will never again leave him, or be left by him,
for a single day. On the only one occasion when we parted since our
marriage, he was captured, tried and condemned to die. I found my way to
Washington, determined to deliver him or to die with him. Yes, if I
could not procure his release, I was determined to do that which should
place me by his side in the prison, or send me swiftly after him to the
scaffold!”

“Oh, Alberta! you make my blood run cold!” exclaimed Elfie.

“In such a pursuit, what were oaths to me? I had one idol—my Vittorio!
one religion—his service! one rule of action—his welfare! Happily his
release was effected by a stronger arm and a shrewder wit than mine. And
he is with me once more, and henceforth we part no more. Where he stays,
I will stay; where he goes, I will go. What he dares that will I dare.
The pains and privations he suffers I will share, and when he ceases to
live I will die!”

Alberta ceased to speak, but continued, with her hands clasped upon her
knees, to gaze into the fire.

Elfie did not answer these wild words; she remained silent—struck dumb,
as it seemed, with astonishment at the vehement earnestness of
self-devotion in one she had deemed so cold and calm. What could have
inspired Alberta with this self-sacrificing, _soul_ sacrificing passion?
Was it the beauty, fire and enthusiasm of the young Italian, who had so
successfully wooed her? Certainly Vittorio Corsoni, if not as handsome
as a grand Apollo, was as beautiful as a lithe Adonis. But then he was
so very dark; and how any woman could really and desperately love such a
slight Adonis, with such dark hair and eyes, Elfie could not imagine!
How could she, when she herself was but a little bit of a creature, with
hair and eyes as dark as Vittorio’s own, and when her ideal of ‘a fine
figure of a man’ was a tall, fair-haired Apollo?

While Elfie sat gazing into the fire, and musing over these mysteries,
there came a soft tap at the door.

Alberta sprang up eagerly and went to open it. The voice of Vittorio
Corsoni was heard to say:

“It is late, love. It is nearly two o’clock.”

“I know it is,” murmured Alberta.

“How will you dispose of your guest?”

“She must sleep with me, Vittorio, dearest. She is but an inexperienced
girl; and there is no place in this house, full of rough soldiers, where
she can sleep in peace except with me, the only woman in the camp,” said
Alberta.

A deep sigh from Corsoni followed these words, and then he murmured in a
lower tone:

“I had just been congratulating myself that we should all rest, without
thinking of an attack to-night! But, as Heaven hears me, I would rather
sit with you, and watch all night in the hourly expectation of an
assault and a battle, than be banished from you, though we pass the
night in peace!”

Alberta replied in a low and tender murmur, inaudible to all but the
ears for whom it was intended.

A whispered conference ensued, and then Corsoni said:

“Well, love, I shall lie on the floor outside your door to-night, and
like a faithful dog will guard your slumbers.”

“It is only for a few hours,” she said.

And then followed a few more gentle, inaudible murmurs, and Colonel
Corsoni left the door. And Alberta closed and fastened it, and returned
to her friend.

“It is late, Elfie! And you must be excessively tired after your long
ride. Get ready for bed, child! You shall be quite safe with me,” said
the guerrilla’s wife, beginning to put the chunks of fire together to
keep them burning through the night.

Elfie took her little watch from its hiding-place and looked at the
time. It was nearly three o’clock. And feeling really almost worn out
with fatigue, she undressed herself and went to bed, and fell fast
asleep even before Alberta laid down beside her.

Meanwhile, without the storm raged, the wind howled and shrieked, the
rain poured and dashed; and the roaring of the rising waters was heard
above it all!

And to the battle-worn guerrillas, sweeter than the music of the
spheres, sounded this warring of the elements, for it assured them of
one night’s safety.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                               THE ALARM.

                          What’s the business
              That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
              The dwellers in the house?—SHAKESPEARE.

                 The foe!—they come! they come!—BYRON.


Elfie slept long and deeply. In the wild guerrilla camp something like
military discipline was kept up, and at four o’clock the reveillé was
beat; but even the sound of the rolling drum close under her windows
failed to arouse this tired young sleeper.

Alberta arose, pale, weary and shivering, in the chilly dawn of the
autumn morning.

She opened one of the windows, letting in the faint light of day, and
the weight of a heavy dampness.

The storm had passed, the sky was clear, and the air was still; but the
ground was strewn thickly with fallen leaves, the trees were bared and
broken, and the rain drops hung glittering upon all.

Through the obscurity she could see the huts of the men with their dim
fires hastily kindled to cook their breakfasts.

After fastening back the shutters, she let down the window and turned to
set the room in order. She drew the chunks of fire together and put on
more wood from a pile that lay handy in the chimney corner. Then she
filled a kettle from a pail of water in the cupboard, and hung it over
the blazing fire.

While thus employed she heard a low rapping at her door, and she went to
see who was there.

It was her husband; and he met her as if he had been parted from her for
a year.

“May I come in?” at length he said.

“No, dear Vittorio, for our visitor still sleeps. When she is up and is
dressed, then you may,” she answered.

“Heaven knows I bear our fair guest no malice; yet I wish Satan had her
rather than she should be here dividing us whom nothing else has ever
parted,” complained Corsoni.

“So does she, I think!” replied Alberta, with a shrug.

“I am going now. What can I do for you?”

“Send Gill for orders.”

Vittorio kissed her suddenly and hurried away.

Alberta went on with her preparations for breakfast. She cut slices from
a stale loaf of bread and set them down before the fire to toast. And
then she sat down to wait for two events—the appearance of Gill and the
awakening of Elfie. She had to wait some time before either event
occurred.

Then came another rap at the door. She got up and opened it, inquiring:

“Is it you, Gill?”

“No, Madam, it is Haddycraff,” answered a voice.

“Haddycraff! Why, where is Gill?” inquired Alberta.

“Can’t be found, Madam, anywhere in the camp. Seems he hasn’t been seen
since the height of the storm last night. The men think he has deserted,
and that he is no better than a Yankee spy!”

“Is that possible?” exclaimed the guerrilla’s wife, in amazement.

“It is certain that he has gone, madam, and it is likely he was a spy!”

“That boy—that mere child! Why, he didn’t look to be more than sixteen
years old!”

“Madam, some of the men say _now_ that they don’t believe he was a boy
at all, but a woman in disguise.”

“Nonsense! What absurd notions they take in their heads.”

“It is only some of them, ma’am. There are others that think he is one
of Rosenthal’s men. Now that his disappearance has set people to
thinking and talking, there is one says he is the image of an orderly he
saw with Major Rosenthal.”

“Yes; doubtless every one of you will have a reminiscence, or a
suspicion, or an inspiration regarding the poor lad! What does your
colonel say?”

“He says nothing; he acts. He has sent out men in pursuit of the boy,
with orders to bring him back, dead or alive!”

“Oh, Heavens! when will these horrors cease!” groaned Alberta, wringing
her hands.

“The colonel sent me here to take my orders from you, madam,” said the
man, suggestively.

“Yes, yes, yes,” answered Alberta, absently, passing her hand to and fro
over her forehead.

“Can’t I do anything for you, madam?” inquired Haddycraff, after a few
minutes of silence and inactivity.

“Yes!——Oh, I am so sorry to hear what you told me about that poor
boy——Yes, I want something additional prepared for our guest’s
breakfast.—I do not believe that he is a spy!——Anything will do. Dress a
chicken, or a partridge, or anything you may have handy, and bring it
in.——He was weary of the hardships of his life, and wanted to go home.
Deserter he may be, but spy never! What do you think, Haddycraff?”

“I think, ma’am, as he has only been with us five days he hasn’t had
time to get tired of us; and we can none of us account for his sudden
disappearance upon any other ground than that of his having been a spy.
However, if the boys find him and bring him in alive, we shall get to
the bottom of the mystery; for you know how the colonel can sift a spy
first and hang him afterwards.”

“Heaven of Heavens, yes!”

“Anything else, ma’am, if you please?”

“Yes——Poor boy! can it be possible?—You may bring me a table and a clean
table cloth. Bring them to the door and rap. I will take them in.”

“That is all, ma’am?”

“Yes—go.”

The man left the door, but the guerrilla’s wife stood like one in a
maze.

“Poor, poor lad,” she murmured. “He will have not the slightest chance
of escape. They will hunt him with that pair of Siberian bloodhounds, I
suppose. Yet if he _is_ a spy, I shall rejoice at his being taken; for
if it were possible for him to escape, he might—yes, he might betray
Corsoni to death. Yes, I shall rejoice when he is taken! Yet I will
plead for his life as I never pleaded for a life before!”

She was interrupted by the arrival of the table at the door, and she
went and took it in, laid the cloth, and arranged the camp breakfast
service on it.

In the midst of her work she was disturbed by a slight noise behind her.
Turning round, she saw Elfie sitting up in bed, with her hands clasping
her temples, her black hair flying loose, and her eyes staring around in
bewilderment.

Alberta put down the knives and forks that were in her hand, and went to
the side of her guest.

“You slept well, Elfie. You never even stirred during the night. I hope
you feel better this morning,” said Alberta.

“Yes; I slept so soundly that when I opened my eyes I couldn’t remember
what had happened to me, or where I was. It seemed to me that I was
still dreaming, or that I had been transferred here by magic. Ah, the
villain! Won’t I make him pay for it!”

“Of whom do you speak, Elfie?”

“Guerrilla Goldsborough, the girl-stealer. I will make him wish that he
himself had been carried off by Satan, rather than carried off me!”

“I am glad to see you in such good spirits, Elfie.”

“Yes, last night I was jaded to death with fatigue. After the good
night’s rest I feel revived. The new day has brought new strength and
resolution. And before it is over, I shall have persuaded Colonel
Corsoni to send me across the lines.”

“My poor girl, I hope you may succeed in doing so”, said Alberta,
gravely.

“I know I shall. For whatever else the Free Sword may be, he is a
gentleman. And none but a caitiff would keep a girl a prisoner against
her will to please anybody,” said Elfie, confidently.

“I do think, if my dear Vittorio suspected that you are really and truly
here against your will, he would do everything in his power to restore
you to your friends. But you see, Elfie, he knew of the attachment
existing between you and Albert, and he cannot understand your
reluctance to remain with him. He judges all women by his own wife, who
left all to follow him and share his fate.”

“Then he _shall_ understand me. He shall know that I am loyal and free.
He shall judge me by myself alone. And when he does this, as a gentleman
and a soldier, he will restore me to my friends,” said Elfie,
positively.

“In what manner?”

“He can send me under a flag of truce to the nearest Federal fort.”

“Ah, dear Elfie, would the flag of truce from a guerrilla chief be
respected by your Federal officers? Would that of Corsoni—of all others,
of Corsoni—an outlaw with a price on his head? What are you thinking of,
my poor child?” said Alberta.

“I am sorry Vittorio is outlawed. Sorrier still that he ever did
anything to place himself in such a dreadful position. But let whoever
may be outlawed or inlawed, I am resolved to be in the Federal lines
before night,” said Elfie, throwing the cover off her, preparatory to
rising.

As she did so, she noticed the large printed U. S. on the head of the
blanket. While she was staring at it, Alberta laughed and said:

“Yes, that is a Yankee blanket. Why, my child, the Yankee manufacturers
work for us now, just as they did before the war, only now we don’t pay
them for it. Why, Elfie, if it were not for dashing and successful raids
upon Yankee encampments, our soldiers would go into battle as
bare-backed as the Berserkers of old.”

Elfie stepped down upon the floor and began to make her toilet, while
Alberta carefully spread up the bed and opened the window behind it.

“It is not what either of us were brought up to, Elfie, this
breakfasting in our bed-room; but I have endured much greater hardships
than this.”

Elfie shrugged her shoulders in silence, and went on dressing.

And by the time she was ready for breakfast, breakfast was ready for
her.

Haddycraff came to the door and rapped, and Alberta went and received
from him a large dish of fried chicken and a pitcher of milk, which was
all that was wanted to complete the preparations for the morning meal.

Alberta set them on the table and then put up the teapot and the plate
of toast.

“We have no butter to-day, Elfie, but Abershaw has got a dairyman, and
with all these cows, I dare say we shall have some for to-morrow,” said
Alberta.

“To-morrow. I hope a great many things will happen before to-morrow,”
said Elfie.

And they both sat down to the table.

Alberta poured out a cup of tea, and set it before her guest and said:

“Try some of that fried chicken, Elfie. Haddycraff is a very good cook.”

“And I suppose some Union farmer’s hen-roost has been robbed to supply
his larder,” replied Elfie rather ungratefully, as she stuck her broken
fork into the crisply fried breast of chicken, and transferred it to her
cracked plate.

“Of course; how else should we be fed?” laughed Alberta.

Elfie had a healthy young appetite, and notwithstanding her captivity
and her conscience, she made a hearty meal.

Not so did Alberta. Every movement and expression of this unhappy woman
betrayed the anxious and habitual vigilance of the fighting and flying
guerrilla life. Forgetting her companion, she would turn her head and
stare through the open window, straining her eyes to see what might be
going on at a distant point of the encampment in the line of her vision,
or else holding her cup of tea suspended between her saucer and her
lips, while she listened to the sounds outside the house.

“For goodness sake, Alberta, make a breakfast. You have scarcely eaten a
morsel of food or drank a drop of tea. What ails you? What are you
watching and listening for? You cannot fear an attack from the Union
troops this morning. You said yourself the river would be too high for
days to admit of their crossing,” said Elfie, impatiently.

“It is not of them I am thinking,” answered Alberta, making an effort to
sip her tea.

“Of what then? I declare you look like a fugitive from justice fearing
an arrest. Something ails you.”

“Something _always_ does. Elfie, did you notice the boy that waited on
us at supper last night?”

“I saw a boy, bringing in kettles and things, and I heard you call him
Gill, or something. I never noticed him particularly. Why should I,
little cockatrice of a brigand!” snapped Elfie.

“He was very well worth looking at. A pretty boy, about sixteen years of
age, with the blackest hair and rosiest cheeks I ever saw in a lad. He
sought refuge with the Free Sword about a week ago. He told a sad
tale—oh, it was a very common one—of how his home had been sacked and
burned and his father and brother killed and himself taken prisoner by
the Yankees; and how at last he had made his escape and reached our
encampment.”

“Young scamp! better he had been sent to join his father and brother
than lived to become a guerrilla.”

“Upon my word, Elfie, you are not very polite to me—all things
considered,” said Alberta.

“I have no right to be—‘all things considered,’” retorted Elfie.

“I do the best I can for you, under the circumstances.”

“And I behave as well as I can, ‘under the circumstances.’”

“Of what do you complain?”

“That I am kept here against my will.”

“Not by me. But let us return to our mutton. This boy, Elfie. Too
delicate for rough military work, the colonel placed him about me as a
sort of page. I declare in five days the gentle boy quite won my heart.
But now——”

—“How would the Free Sword like the idea of the pretty page winning his
lady’s heart?” jeered Elfie, maliciously.

“Girl! I am deeply and thoroughly ashamed of you! My interest in the
lonely boy is sisterly, motherly—what you will. And Colonel Corsoni
knows that the woman who gladly gave up earth and heaven for _his_ love,
is his own soul and body for time and eternity. He knows that I am fond
of the boy; but he knows also that I would cast that boy into a burning
fire if it were to please _him_—Corsoni!”

“Well, but what about the blessed boy. Is it he that you are watching
and listening for?”

“Yes, yes, yes! He has disappeared. The men say that he was a spy. Some
say that he is no boy, but a disguised girl. Others deny that and
pretend to recognize him, now that it is too late, as an orderly whom
they had seen in attendance upon Major Rosenthal.”

“Whe-ew!” exclaimed Elfie under her breath, as a light broke slowly over
her face.

“Now Colonel Corsoni has sent out men in pursuit of the boy. If he
really was a spy, and succeeds in effecting his escape, he will make for
the nearest fort in the lines forming the Southern Defences of
Washington, which are on this side of the river, you know; and he will
betray the retreat of the Free Sword and bring the enemy upon us
probably before we can escape.”

“Lord grant he may!” muttered Elfie between her teeth.

“And on the other hand, if he should be re-captured, he will certainly
be doomed to death, for the Free Sword never yet spared a spy. Every way
I look the prospect is full of horror. It is for our returning scouts
with their prisoner that I listen so anxiously.”

“You say that Colonel Corsoni never yet spared a spy.”

“Never.”

“He will spare this one,” said Elfie, positively.

“How do you know that?” demanded Alberta sharply.

“By reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“I cannot tell you. That is, I do not feel at liberty to do so.”

“HARK!”

“What is the matter?”

“They are coming!” exclaimed Alberta.

And at this moment the galloping of horses was heard, followed by the
sound of many eager voices and the trampling of many hasty feet.

The next instant the door was thrown open by the guerrilla Mutchison,
who stalked into the room.

The two young women started up in alarm.

“What is the matter?” demanded Alberta.

“Madam!” exclaimed Mutchison, speaking in haste and trepidation, “the
boy Gill has betrayed us! The scouts who went out in search of him have
returned and report a body of the enemy’s cavalry near!”

And without another word he pounced upon Elfie, lifted and threw her
over his shoulder and bore her, screaming and struggling from the room.

Alberta started forward to stop him, but before she had gone two paces
she met Colonel Corsoni, who came hurrying towards her.

He was armed and equipped for his ride, and he carried in his hand the
black hat and feather fastened by the flaming carbuncle button.

“Alberta, dearest—quick! Your horse is ready and waiting beside my own!”
he exclaimed. And he seized up her dark hooded cloak and with his own
hands wrapped it about her form.

“It is true then! The enemy is upon us!” she cried.

“Two companies of cavalry armed with their accursed Henry rifles!
sixteen shooters, that they may load up on a Sunday and fire off all the
week! What can my ninety almost unarmed men do against such a force?”

“Oh! fly! fly, Vittorio! And here! take that burning carbuncle from your
hat! You are known by it. And its rays shoot so far in the sunlight.”

“I would almost as willingly be captured as remove the gem, _your_ gift,
Alberta! placed, where it shines, by your hand!”

“Then my hand will remove it again!” said Corsoni’s wife, hastily
unfastening the fiery stone and concealing it in her bosom.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                              THE FLIGHT.

              And there was mounting in hot haste.—BYRON.


Then Corsoni seized her hand and drew her into the yard, where the men
already mounted awaited their chief.

Corsoni placed his wife on her horse and then mounted his own.

Alberta, turning around, saw Elfie bound hand and foot behind
Goldsborough, who was firmly seated on one of the most powerful
roadsters she had ever seen.

Elfie could no longer fight or struggle, but she scolded and
remonstrated as vigorously as ever.

“Men—if you _are_ men and not monsters—how _dare_ you look on and see
such an outrage as this accomplished!” she cried, addressing the band at
large.

But the men were busy with their curbs, restraining restive horses, that
were as eager to fly as their masters; and they had no attention to
bestow on Elfie.

“Colonel Corsoni, are you a gentleman, and will you permit this violence
to be done me?” she demanded of the Free Sword.

But the guerrilla chief was marshaling his band, and did not even hear
her words.

“Alberta, Alberta, why do you not interfere? You promised that no wrong
should be done me that you could prevent!” she screamed, turning her
head—the only part of her person she could move—towards Madame Corsoni.

“Would to heaven I could prevent this, Elfie!” exclaimed the guerrilla’s
wife. Then turning to her cousin, she said, sharply:

“Albert Goldsborough, if you have a spark of manhood left, release the
girl and leave her here. The Federals will find her when they come, and
protect her, until they can send her to her friends.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Quite right, Alberta,” laughed Colonel Goldsborough. “As
lady and chieftainess you could not say less. Though, of course, your
interference was a mere form; for you know as well as I do that Elfie
would not thank you for hindering me; because at heart she is just as
willing to be carried off as I am to take her.”

“Oh, you—you—you _unutterably_, contemptible miscreant!” cried Elfie, at
a loss for names base enough to bestow on her captor.

But at that instant the order was given to move forward; and
Goldsborough put spurs to his horse and bounded away.

The troop started—very much as a company of fox hunters start when the
fox has broken cover—all in wildest haste and disorder, the first object
being to get away as quickly as possible—the great difference that in
this case the party were the hunted instead of the hunters.

They galloped, without drawing rein, until they had put miles and miles
between themselves and their late encampment.

Then, on the edge of another great forest, they slackened pace to
breathe their horses.

When all the troop—the men and horses covered with dust and reeking with
sweat—rode up, their chief lifted his hand and spoke to them;

“ATTENTION! Scatter yourselves through the forest, and rendezvous
to-night at the Black Bear’s Pass, where we join Colonel Goldsborough’s
force.”

Then they entered the forest by different paths, and scattered
themselves according to order.

Some little distance into the forest Colonel Corsoni and Alberta rode
side by side.

“So we go to Goldsborough’s encampment,” she said.

“Yes. This morning, when the scouts brought in the news that the enemy’s
cavalry, informed by the little spy Gill, was after us, we called a
hasty council of war—Goldsborough, myself, Mutchison, and Abershaw; when
it was decided that we should consolidate the remnant of our bands, at
the Black Bear’s Pass, there to wait for Monck, who is expected down
from the Shenandoah Valley, to plan another raid into Pennsylvania or
Maryland. Ah, what a hard life this for you, my tenderly reared love!”
said the guerrilla chief, suddenly breaking off from his talk of rapine
and bloodshed, to gaze with ineffable tenderness upon his companion.

“My Free Sword,” exclaimed his wife, fondly and proudly, “it is the life
of my heart’s choosing. I am happy—oh, believe me—I am _always_ happy by
your side! only miserable when absent from you. And you never wish me
absent, do you, Vittorio?”

“God knows, never!” exclaimed the Free Sword, fervently. “I am such an
egotist as to want you always with me, cost you what it may.”

“‘Such an egotist’ are you, in making me so happy? Listen, my chief—oh,
my dearest, listen: I am orthodox and I believe in Heaven and in hell.
But I will have no Heaven that you do not share, my own! And death and
hell are less terrible to me than the thought of parting from you,” she
murmured, still fondly and proudly, as she had spoken before.

“Then by the splendor of Heaven we will never part again—no, not for a
day!”

Their hands met in a clasp as fervent as the pledge of a first
betrothal, and then they rode on again in silence for some moments,
until the clatter of a horse’s feet was heard behind them, and
Goldsborough galloped up, with Elfie still bound behind him. He lifted
his hat gallantly as he passed Madam Corsoni.

“Oh, Vittorio!” exclaimed Alberta, as the horseman and his captive sped
out of sight.

“What is it, love?” inquired Colonel Corsoni.

“Elfie! nothing can be done for her until we reach our destination, I
suppose. But, oh, when we do, pray try to effect the deliverance of
Elfie. It is shameful in Albert Goldsborough to carry her off against
her will.”

“My dearest, do you suppose for a moment that it is really against her
will? I do not,” laughed the Free Sword.

“It is bitterly against her will! I do not understand how it can be so;
since I know that she loved him once! but I see that it is!” said his
wife, earnestly.

Colonel Corsoni gayly shook his head.

“It is, indeed, as I say! Strange as it may sound, she seems really to
hate the lover she once loved so fondly!”

“And for no personal offence against her? For a mere difference of
opinion in regard to this war? Impossible! Dearest, you should know that
no woman who truly loved, ever discarded her lover for a mere difference
of opinion in religion or politics! And that Elfie truly loved Albert,
and even sought to win his love, I had an opportunity of proving! Oh, I
watched them with too much interest in the play to be mistaken! I was
too anxious that the little black-eyed witch should win him, and so
remove a troublesome suitor to yourself and a hateful rival from my
path; not to have discovered the truth!”

“Oh yes, I know that she did once love him, and seek to win and succeed
in winning his heart! But all that is over now!”

“And has a woman the right, do you think, to win a man’s heart and then
throw it away?”

“No, certainly!”

“See here, dearest; she not only loved him and won his love; but she
betrothed herself to him. And he at least has been faithful to that
betrothal. Listen, my own! If Elfrida were not the promised wife of
Goldsborough, I would not look on for an instant and permit her to be
carried off by him; or, being his promised wife, if her feelings had
really changed towards him, I would not interfere to deliver her from
his power. But neither of these hypotheses exist. At heart she loves him
still; loves him more than ever, that he has proved _his_ love, by
daring so much for her sake! But Elfie is given to heroics—real heroics
and mock heroics. She has embraced the cause of the Union! It is her cue
to hate ‘treason’ and to love ‘patriotism.’ And left to herself she will
sacrifice her lover, whom she adores, for her country that she only
thinks she adores! But let Goldsborough succeed in carrying her off, and
making her his wife, by force if you like to call it so, and Elfie will
be as happy as a queen in the greenwood.”

“But only see how she resisted her abduction! See how she wounded her
captor in her struggles to escape!”

“All done to deceive _herself_, as well as her lover, into the idea that
she hates him as a ‘traitor’ ought to be hated—according to her creed!
Ha, ha, ha! We shall have a stormy wedding at the Black Bear’s Pass
to-morrow; but in a day or two the storm will have passed and all will
be sunshine!” laughed Vittorio, gayly.

“But how, in heaven’s name, is any marriage to take place without the
woman’s consent? Elfie may be carried off and kept prisoner by physical
force; but no physical force on earth can make her the _wife_ of Albert
Goldsborough!”

“He will find a way to make her consent to marry him, and make her
confess that she loves him, too!” laughed Vittorio.

“Judging from what I had seen, I should think she would tear him to
pieces first!”

“She can’t! He’s tough! She’ll tear him frightfully, no doubt! But he
will stand a great deal of tearing from those pretty hands, with the
certainty that it will all end in their caressing him. But this path is
becoming very narrow and obstructed. Let me go before, dearest, and put
aside the branches for you,” said Colonel Corsoni, taking the lead.

So they journeyed on until sometime in the afternoon, when once more
they encountered Goldsborough and Elfie. He was pausing at a forest
rivulet to let his horse drink.

“We need something to drink as well as our beasts. What do you think,
Colonel?” inquired Goldsborough.

In reply Corsoni handed the speaker a flask of brandy, from which
Goldsborough took a deep draught.

“That is a genuine article, Colonel, where ever you got it from,” he
said, handing back the flask to its owner.

“A present from Mutchison,” said Corsoni.

“Oh! spoils from the picnic—just so!” answered Albert. Then turning to
his companion, he said—“Mrs. Goldsborough, I am aware that you never
touch anything stronger than tea or lemonade. Unfortunately we have
neither to offer you. However, the clearest of springs sparkles below
us, and if you would like a draught of fresh water——”

“Hold your tongue! Don’t speak to me, miscreant!” flashed Elfie, losing
her patience.

Meanwhile Colonel Corsoni had leaped from his saddle, and dipped up from
the spring a can of water, which he now held to Elfie’s lips.

She was choking with thirst, so she drank it all and bowed her head in
thanks.

“Now I think we want foddering as well as watering. Corsoni, my friend,
what is the condition of the subsistence department?”

The Free Sword, who was about to render the same service to his wife
that he had just rendered to Elfie, handed the can of water to Alberta,
and then took from some depository about his horse a tin box of ham
sandwiches, which he delivered to Colonel Goldsborough.

“More spoils from the picnic, I suppose,” said Albert, as he received
them.

“Yes, I judge so, since they came from Mutchison,” answered Corsoni.

“Exactly. Well, Mrs. Goldsborough, if you would like some of these
sandwiches, and will promise not to scalp me, I will free your hands
long enough for you to satisfy your hunger,” said Elfie’s lover.

“You poltroon! I would see _you_ eaten up by snakes sooner than I would
touch a morsel of food from your thievish and blood-stained hands! If I
cannot free myself in any other way, I can by starving myself to death!”
exclaimed Elfie.

“Two words to that, Mrs. Albert Goldsborough! You may think you have a
right to destroy yourself. But I’m dashed if you have any right to
destroy my wife, after all the trouble I have had to get her,” said
Albert, as he put spurs to his horse and bounded away.

Some little time Corsoni and Alberta lingered to take a light luncheon,
and then they also followed after him.

They continued their way through the forest, which grew thicker and
darker as they penetrated deeper into its recesses. At length, however,
they reached higher ground, where the trees grew thinner.

And just as the moon arose they began to ascend that almost inaccessible
part of the mountains known as the Black Bear’s Pass.

Steep, winding, difficult and dangerous was the way.

The side of the mountain up which the path wound was nearly
perpendicular, broken into rocks, cut up with torrents and obstructed
with a ragged, scrubby copsewood of evergreen. The precipice towered a
thousand feet above them on their right hand, and fell a thousand feet
below them on their left. A single false step must have precipitated
horses and riders to death.

Corsoni went in advance and Alberta followed on her sure-footed animal.
Neither the guerrilla chief nor his devoted wife thought or cared for
the present imminent danger; for oh! a more horrible fate threatened
them daily in Corsoni’s possible re-arrest than could be braved in a
quick and merciful death by falling over this precipice. Indeed, the
more terrible the dangers of the path the more assured was the heart of
the guerrilla’s wife, since the perils of the way seemed to promise them
immunity from pursuit.

They went on, slowly ascending this “devil’s ladder,” as Corsoni
laughingly characterized it, until at last they heard voices in advance.

They had once more come unexpectedly upon Goldsborough and Elfie. The
former was saying:

“Now, if your hands were free, my fair wife, you would have a fine
opportunity of rolling us both down to destruction.”

“No matter, wretch. ‘What’s not paid is but delayed.’ I shall be in at
your death yet. The one burning aspiration of my soul is to live to see
you hanged, Albert Goldsborough!” she exclaimed.

“So you shall, Mrs. Albert—around your pretty neck, my sweet wife, as I
said before,” retorted Goldsborough.

It was while this tender interchange of affection was going on that
Corsoni and Alberta rode up and halted behind the party.

“What’s the matter ahead there?” inquired the Free Sword. “Can’t you get
on?”

“Yes, but very slowly. My horse carries double, you may remember.
Besides, Mrs. Goldsborough is timid, and does not like me to go any
faster,” replied Albert.

“It is false, you caitiff! I don’t care how fast you go—the faster the
better, so that you go to the old Nick!” flashed Elfie.

“And take you with me?” queried Albert.

“Hold your tongue!” snapped Elfie.

“Go on, my dear Goldsborough, do,” recommended Corsoni.

“I am going. I only stop once in a way for a little love making with my
bonny bride here, which is but natural in the honeymoon, you know,” said
Albert, as he carefully proceeded on his way.

Corsoni and Alberta followed.

The pass became more and more steep, winding, difficult and dangerous.
The rocks were more broken, the torrents more swollen, the copsewood
more tangled and treacherous.

The precipice now rose five hundred feet on their right hand, and fell
fifteen hundred on their left. The false step which might precipitate
horses and riders to death seemed imminent.

Alberta’s spirits actually rose with the perils and perplexities of the
ascent, for these seemed absolutely to insure the fugitives against
pursuit.

“I do not think the Yankee heroes will care to track us up this path,”
said Alberta, exultingly.

“No, I do not think they will. Besides, one single resolute and well
armed man, stationed at the head of this pass, could keep it against an
advancing army,” replied the Free Sword.

An hour more of toilsome and terrible climbing brought them to the top
of the mountain.

The full moon was now at the zenith, and shone brightly down upon a
scene which was as great a curiosity in its way as the Natural Bridge
itself. It seemed a fort of Nature’s own forming. Saucer-shaped was the
top of the mountain, and surrounded by a natural breastwork of earth and
rocks, in the clefts of which grew sturdy evergreens. Within this
naturally enclosed space, which was about a mile in circumference, was a
picturesque spectacle—groups of men, droves of horses, and many
campfires. But here seemed no sign of shelter for man or beast.

Colonel Goldsborough had arrived just before Corsoni and Alberta. He had
unbound his captive, who was seated in sulky silence on the ground, and
he now turned to receive the Free Sword.

“Welcome to the Devil’s Retreat, for such is the delectable name by
which this natural fortification goes. See, your men are here before
you, and they are already preparing for the comfort of Madam,” he said.

Corsoni laughed and thanked his host, and then alighted and lifted his
wife off her horse.

“You must be nearly dead with fatigue, beloved,” he whispered, tenderly,
as he took a blanket from one of his men, threw it to the ground, and
gently seated Alberta on it.

Meanwhile, some of Corsoni’s band busied themselves with cutting down
saplings, driving stakes into the ground, weaving walls, and roofing in
a temporary shelter for Corsoni’s beloved wife—beloved by all the band
for her devotion to their chief and their cause.

“Come sit on this blanket with me, Elfie. You will take cold on the bare
ground, child,” said Alberta, kindly.

And the captive, who felt a sort of limited sense of safety in the
presence of the chieftainess, came and sat down beside her.

When Alberta’s pretty, picturesque hut of fragrant evergreens was
finished, Haddycraff came to her and said:

“Your shelter is ready, lady. Come into it. Abershaw will bring you
tea.”

Alberta thanked her faithful follower, and gave her hand to her female
companion, saying:

“Come, Elfie; you shall share my hut, and rest under my protection
to-night as last night.”

And Elfie, whose young joints, to be sure, were stiff with long
constraint and hard riding, gladly availed herself of Alberta’s aid in
rising.

“Ah, the wretch! what pain he has put me to, with all the rest of my
wrongs! Every bone in my body aches as if I were a hundred years old.
Oh! that fate would turn the tables and give that man over to _my_
tender mercies for one day!” she cried, as she struggled painfully to
her feet.

“Fate may well do so, Elfie, and if it should, you will remember nothing
of Albert but that he was the lover and the beloved of your earliest
youth,” said Alberta, in a low and gentle voice, as she led the way
taken by Haddycraff towards her hut.

It was built against the highest part of that natural wall of rocks, and
it was sheltered from the north wind by a thick clump of cedars that
grew above them.

The walls were built of stakes driven into the ground, with cedar boughs
woven thickly between them; and the roof was made of sticks laid across
the top, with cedar boughs piled and pressed down on them. The flooring,
which was also the bedding, was made of dry leaves, with a large, clean
camp blanket laid over them. The door was just a simple opening left
large enough for a woman to go in and out, and before it hung a small,
clean piece of a camp blanket, fastened with wooden pins to the roof.

Beside this door stood Abershaw, another of Alberta’s devoted followers,
and at his feet lay a large bundle wrapped in a McIntosh water-proof
covering.

“I was the last to leave the encampment, Madam. I lingered behind, with
the colonel’s leave, to load two mules with the camp furniture of your
room. Here is a part of it,” he said, stooping and beginning to open the
bundle.

“And so you ran the risk of capture for the sake of securing these
comforts for me, Abershaw?” said the colonel’s wife, with some emotion.

“Danger and duty seems to be the same thing in our wild life, Madam; and
I am only too glad to meet the one and brave the other in your
services,” said this gallant guerrilla, lifting his hat.

“Warmest thanks, Abershaw. But the colonel will know better than I do
how to return such kindness.”

Again the man lifted his hat, and then, pointing to the opposite side of
the area, he said:

“The supper is nearly ready at the fire over there, Madam. Will you and
the young lady join the colonel and his guest there, or will you have
your tea brought here?”

“We will join the colonel’s party, Abershaw,” said Corsoni’s wife.

“Alberta, you will do as you please; but as for me, I will starve sooner
than break bread in Albert Goldsborough’s detestable company!”
indignantly exclaimed Elfie.

Abershaw turned with an involuntary gaze of amazement at the enraged
girl; for he, like most of the men, naturally supposed the young lady to
be the willing companion of her lover’s flight.

But Alberta calmly replied:

“Very well, Abershaw. You hear what Miss Fielding says. Bring our
suppers here.”

The man bowed and turned away.

“I am sorry if I have disconcerted you, Alberta; but if my life depended
on my doing so, I could not eat and drink with that dastardly
kidnapper!” said Elfie.

“It does not matter much to me, dear. Let’s drop the subject for the
present. We will speak of it presently,” said Alberta, who was stooping
over and examining the contents of the bundle that Abershaw had brought.

It proved to contain a supply of pillows, clean sheets and blankets,
from Alberta’s press in the old plantation house.

“How kind and thoughtful of that man! How truly bound he is to the
colonel and myself!” murmured Alberta.

“He seems to be a very superior person, that Abershaw. Very superior to
his condition, I mean,” said Elfie.

“There are several such among the devoted followers of the Free Sword,”
proudly answered Alberta.

“And you—you are like a queen, with your court about you, here in the
green wood,” continued Elfie.

“As you may be, if you like the sovereignty,” replied the chieftainess,
who was now engaged in spreading the clean sheets and blankets, and
placing the pillows upon the fragrant bed of dried leaves in her hut.

When this was done, she came out of the hut, and sat down with Elfie
before the door.

And presently was seen approaching a small procession across the area.

First came Abershaw, with a table-cloth thrown over his right arm, and a
sugar bowl hugged under his left; a teapot in one hand, and a milk jug
in the other. After him followed Haddycraff with a large plate of bread
and butter and a big dish of stewed rabbits. Behind them came another
man, loaded with cups, saucers, plates, spoons, knives and forks.

When Abershaw reached the front of the hut, he spread the table-cloth
over the ground, and arranged the supper upon it, and then dismissed his
assistants, and remained to wait on the wife of his chief and her
companion.

The two young women sat down to the feast.

Nothing on earth ever took away Elfie’s appetite, and as she was now
very hungry—not having eaten a morsel since the morning—she fell to with
great gusto.

Not so Alberta. For one thing, the guerrilla’s wife had broken her fast
with those ham sandwiches in the afternoon; and for another, she was
troubled with many subjects of anxiety. So she ate but little, and
talked a great deal.

“Abershaw, is it certain, do you think, that Gill really _did_ betray
us?”

“Not a doubt of it, Madam. He was a spy from the first. Tubman swears
_now_, though it did not occur to him at first, that he is the same boy
he has seen in attendance upon Major Rosenthal. Tubman, you know, Madam,
was a conscript in the Union army, and deserted to us.”

“No, I didn’t know it. But I think it is a pity Tubman did not recognize
the boy at first,” said Alberta.

“I don’t think he saw much of the boy, ma’am.”

“Abershaw! You were the last to leave the encampment! Did you see any
sign of the nearer approach of the enemy’s cavalry, before you left?”

“Yes, Madam. I went up into the attic and climbed through the skylight
on to the roof of the house, and with my field-glass I saw their
approach. Their advance was just rising up from the other side to the
top of the Hogsback hill—not two miles off. I got away with my loaded
mules as fast as I could; and thanks to the thickness of the forest,
eluded pursuit.”

“Do you think, Abershaw, that we are quite safe from pursuit here?”

“Safe from surprise at least, Madam. The pass is strongly picketed at
short intervals for two miles down.”

“Is Monck’s battalion expected soon, do you know?”

“Hourly, Madam.”

“Will they come up by the same way that we did?”

“No, Madam; by the opposite side, which is much easier of ascent. _Our_
straggling men are also arriving by scores; the Colonel will soon
re-organize his whole force; and when Monck’s men join us, we shall be
able to hold this post against any number that may be brought against
it.”

“But we are not to remain here.”

“No, Madam. As soon as our whole force, including the three independent
commands, is mustered, there is to be another great raid into
Pennsylvania or Maryland, before the winter sets in.”

Alberta clasped her hands together, with a look of woe unutterable and
indescribable.

“Will you have anything more, Madam?” inquired her attendant, who had
not seen the misery on her face.

“No, Abershaw. Take all those things away!—You have finished, I believe,
Elfie?”

“Yes; ever so long ago!”

“Remove them, Abershaw; and pray ask Colonel Corsoni if he will step
here and see me before I retire.”

The man promptly obeyed the order by piling up as much of the cracked
crockery and broken cutlery as he could carry, and walking off with his
arms full.

He came back a second time with an assistant who helped him to take away
all that was left; and he gave message to Madam Corsoni to the effect
that the colonel would attend her immediately.

When the two men had finally left the spot, and the Free Sword was seen
approaching it, Elfie retired within the hut leaving the husband and
wife together.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                           COLONEL ROSENTHAL.

             His eyebrow dark and eye of fire
             Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;
             Yet lines of thought upon his cheek,
             Did deep design and counsel speak;
             His forehead by his casque worn bare,
             His thick moustache and curling hair,
             Dark brown and grizzled here and there,
                 But more through toil than age.
             His square turned joints and strength of limb
             Showed him no carpet knight so trim,
             But in close fight a champion grim,
                 In camps a leader sage.—SCOTT.


Elfie in the hands of the guerrillas, we must go and look after Justin,
from whom we have been separated too long.

It is true that we have heard of him from time to time, and by little
fragments of news picked up here and there, we have been able to keep
track of his movements since he left us.

We know, for instance, that his regiment has been engaged in several
sharp skirmishes, such as would be set down as great battles in any
other country than this, the theatre of our colossal war, and that in
every one of these fights he distinguished himself alike by his personal
courage and his military skill.

We have heard that, for gallant and meritorious conduct, he was promoted
to the rank of major, and that, by the death or disabling of his
superior officers, the temporary command of his regiment, then on duty
at H., devolved upon him.

Now it happened that upon the very morning of Elfie’s fatal picnic
excursion, the colonel of Justin’s regiment, being convalescent,
returned to his post of duty. Major Rosenthal was relieved, and for
faithful and efficient services, was promoted to the rank of colonel,
and ordered to assume the command of the —— Cavalry, then stationed at
W., in the valley.

The next morning Colonel Rosenthal, mounted on a noble war-horse, set
forth to cross the Blue Ridge, _en route_ for his distant destination.
He was attended by a single orderly, Sergeant Hay, the friendless youth
whom Britomarte had kissed and blessed on the moving of the brigade, and
who was thenceforth the object of Justin’s especial care.

The valley was free, or supposed to be free, from guerrillas, and
therefore a body guard was deemed unnecessary.

It was a glorious autumn morning after the storm, and the passage of the
mountains on this route was neither difficult nor dangerous. And it was
yet early in the forenoon when Colonel Rosenthal, having crossed the
ridge in safety, descended into the old turnpike stage road, leading
though a dense forest towards W., which was still far distant.

But the glory of the morning had no power to lighten the gloom that
overshadowed the young officer’s spirit.

In truth, he had both public and private matter for depression.

The former was of course grief for the wide-spread ruin wrought by the
war, and sickness of soul with “hope deferred” by its long continuance
and indefinitely postponed end, and was shared by every patriot in the
land, and every philanthropist in the world.

The latter was in distress about his sister Erminie and his beloved
Britomarte, and his intense anxiety concerning the fate of a young
orderly sergeant, whom, while in temporary command of the regiment, he
had detailed on special duty, and who had left him about seven days
previous to this, and had not yet been heard from.

This boy was an especial favorite with his superior officer. Soon after
the regiment had left Washington, and while it was lying at City Point,
he had enlisted. Since that, for cleanliness, sobriety, diligence,
fidelity, and, in short, all soldierly good qualities, he had been
steadily promoted until he had reached the rank of sergeant.

As by instinct Justin Rosenthal soon singled the boy out from his
comrades, and selected him as one of his own orderlies, Hay being the
other.

Now it occurred that while Major Rosenthal was in command of the
regiment at H., there came rumors of the reappearance of the terrible
Free Sword on the east side of the Blue Ridge. He was reported to be in
the neighborhood of L., re-organizing his band of desperadoes, who were
flocking to his standard by scores, by fifties and by hundreds.

It was whispered that there was a plan on foot to mass the three great
bands respectively commanded by Monck, Corsoni and Goldsborough; then to
cross the river above the Point of Rocks, slip down behind the line of
forts, and make a sudden dash into Washington.

Such were the rumors among the country people; but whether they were
true or false, or by whom, or upon what ground they had been started, no
one could tell.

Reconnoitering parties had been sent to beat up the country in the
neighborhood of L.; but they had returned without having seen or heard
anything about the dreaded Free Sword or any of his followers.

Either he was not there, or his encampment was well concealed, and the
people of the country were keeping his secret.

And as for Monck’s and Goldsborough’s bands, there was not even a rumor
suggestive of their whereabouts.

It became now advisable to send some person of equal tact and courage,
who should go among the country people in the vicinity of L., pass for a
secessionist, discover the retreat of the Free Sword, penetrate to his
camp, and find out what foundation there might be for all the rumors
that were afloat.

The duty must be undertaken voluntarily of course; but no one in the
regiment was found willing to go upon this dangerous expedition, until
Will. Wing, the major’s second orderly, proffered his services for the
forlorn hope.

His major was surprised and softened by this devotion in one so young
and tender as this boy, and he kindly and candidly set before him the
extreme perils of the enterprise.

But Wing was firm, and respectfully represented that his very youth
would be his protection, as it would render him an object of less
suspicion to the enemy; and he begged that he might be permitted to
render the required service to his country.

So the major had consented, and the young orderly, disguised in a suit
of confederate gray, had left H. some seven days before, and since that
he had not been seen or heard from.

And now Colonel Rosenthal’s soul was pierced by remorse for having
suffered the boy to go upon such a fatal errand, and by grief for his
probable fate; for scarcely a doubt remained upon the colonel’s mind
that his spy had been discovered, and had fallen a victim to the
vengeance of the terrible Free Sword.

With a spirit burdened and darkened by these thoughts and feelings,
Colonel Rosenthal rode on his way.

So few travellers passed this old, deserted turnpike road, that the
sound of horse’s feet, galloping rapidly towards him, startled Justin
and caused him to look up; when, to his unspeakable joy, he recognized
Wing.

Smiling, the boy saluted his officer and sprang from his horse.

“Oh, Wing, my child! I am so rejoiced to see you safe back again! What
news?” eagerly exclaimed Colonel Rosenthal.

“Great news, Major,” said Wing, who knew nothing of his officer’s new
rise in rank—“great news, sir! I have met with a complete success. I
have unearthed Corsoni and delivered him and his band over to our
forces.”

“That is glorious! Wing, you shall have a lieutenant’s commission for
that!”

“Thanks, Major; if the new commission is not to remove me from your
side,” said the orderly.

“Foolish boy! Do you weigh your attachment to me against such an honor
as that?”

“No; Heaven knows I do not; for my attachment to you would so weigh down
the honor that it would send the lieutenant’s commission flying!”

“We shall not be separated, Wing. I shall take good care of that. I am
going on to W. to take command of a cavalry regiment there. After you
are promoted, if you should be found capable of fulfilling the duties of
the office, you shall be my adjutant and live at my head quarters. But
where were you flying so fast when I met you, Wing?”

“To report to you, Colonel.”

“At H.?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you have an opportunity of reporting here. Mount your horse,
Wing, and ride on with me. I have managed to get you and Hay detached
from your late regiment, and transferred to the one of which I am about
to assume the command; so that you may both be near me, as formerly.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” answered Wing, springing lightly into his saddle.

“Now give me a full report of your expedition, Wing. Yet let it be a
brief one, since ‘brevity is the soul of wit.’”

“It shall be brief as a military order, my Colonel. When I left the
camp, seven days since, with the rebel prisoner’s clothes on my back and
the rebel soldier’s pass in my pocket, and _your_ pass rolled up into
the compass of a hazel-nut and wrapped in water-proof skin, tucked into
my cheek like a quid of tobacco, so that I could even swallow it in a
case of extreme emergency, I took the way to L., avoiding the highway
and keeping pretty much to the country roads and bridle-paths. I stopped
at the farm-houses, ostensibly to procure food or lodging, but really to
get information. I passed for a confederate soldier on leave going home
to L. to see my friends; and to prove my words true, I showed them the
pass that we took from the prisoner William Grill, whom we captured near
C.”

“But, Wing, there was danger in that.”

“Sir, there was danger in every step of the expedition. I was prepared
to meet it.”

“Brave boy! But suppose you had met with people who knew the person of
this William Gill.”

“Sir, I had to risk that, and to use some little address. On coming to a
farm-house, at the close of the day, for instance, I would be taken at
once by my uniform to be a confederate soldier, and I would be received
and treated kindly. Soon I would take an opportunity of asking my
entertainers if they knew a family of the name of Gill. Almost
invariably it happened that they knew no such family personally; though
in some instances they knew _of_ them. I would express myself sorry for
that, as I was a connection of that family myself and had been in hopes
of meeting friends on my road. When my entertainers betrayed suspicion
of me, which was very seldom, I showed Gill’s pass, which at once
dissipated all their doubts.”

“Well, and what did you hear from these people?”

“Plenty of abuse of the Yankees, Colonel, which was quite natural, and
in which I joined so boisterously and with such seeming malignity as
sometimes even to provoke an apology for these same Yankees from their
confederate foes. ‘Some of them Union fellows were not so very bad,
after all,’ the rebels admitted.”

“Well, but about the Free Sword?” inquired Colonel Rosenthal.

“I heard nothing for the first two days. Near noon, on the second day of
my journey, I fell in with a party of our foragers. I was stopped
immediately as a rebel. But I took out my quid of water-proof skin, and
unrolled and exhibited your pass, and told my story. I passed the night
with them, and from them I learned that on the preceding night they had
surrounded the house of a certain notorious bushwhacker named Gill, with
orders to arrest him and his sons; that they had been fired upon from
the windows of the house, and several of their number wounded and two
killed; that they had then fired the house and burned out the
bushwhackers. The father and one son were killed in the fight that
followed, and the other son was taken prisoner. There was another son,
they said, who had been captured some six weeks before. I explained to
the men that this first captured son was the one I was personating, and
that the affair of the previous night would aid me very much in keeping
up the character. In the morning I left them and went on my journey,
striking deeper into the forest.”

“I hope you soon struck the trail of the Free Sword.”

“Sooner than I expected. Look you, sir: I did not spare my flesh and
blood. I gashed myself with several wounds, to make it appear that I had
been in a fight. Nor did I spare the Confederate uniform. I burned and
scorched it in several places, to make it seem that I had barely escaped
with my life from the burning homestead.”

“You have a great deal of craft for one so young, Wing.”

“‘Necessity is the mother of invention,’ it is said, sir. In this
‘forlorn plight’ I went on my way, until, near nightfall, I came to a
lonely farm-house, on the edge of the forest, where there were some
extremely ragged Confederate soldiers, smoking and drinking. I dragged
myself to their presence, and told them my piteous story: how I was a
Confederate soldier on leave; how I was going home to see my father and
brothers, when, on the very night of my arrival, their house was burned,
and they themselves bayonetted by the Yankee soldiers; and how I had
barely escaped with my life.”

“There again you ran a risk, Wing! Suppose these soldiers had personally
known the Gills?”

“I provided for that, Colonel. The first question I groaned forth was
whether they knew the Gills. No—none of them knew the family personally,
though one man said he had heard of them, and that they had a son in the
Confederate army. So you see, my Colonel, all the rest was easy enough.
I had only to say that I was that son, and to tell them my piteous
story.”

“But suppose some one of their number had known the son by sight, and so
had detected you?”

“Suppose the earth had opened under my feet, Colonel? I beg your pardon
for speaking so lightly, sir; but one was as likely to happen as the
other. Both were possible, but neither probable. However, I had even
provided for the remote contingency of detection before committing
myself in my story. I had ascertained by observation that no one among
them knew by sight any member of the Gill family. If they had, I should
have passed myself as a distant connection, bearing the same name.”

“Go on, my boy.”

“One of the men—Haddycraff—asked me how long I had to serve in the
regiment to which I belonged. I answered, no time at all. That my leave
in point of fact amounted to a discharge; for that before the leave
should expire, my time of service would be out.”

“And what was your motive in telling that story, Gill? Was it that you
had got your hand in, or rather your tongue in, to the invention line of
business, and couldn’t get it out again?” laughed Colonel Rosenthal.

“Not at all, sir; I had a motive in saying that. I saw that the men
among whom I found myself were members of some guerrilla gang, and that
they were after recruits. The event proved that I was quite right, for
Sergeant Haddycraff slapping me smartly upon the shoulder, exclaimed
heartily:

“Well, my brave boy, a soldier does not sit down to weep over his
wrongs, like a woman; he rises up to avenge them like a man!”

“‘And that I mean to do on every blamed Unionist I can find!’ I
answered.

“‘Quite right. Now you’re a-chatting. That’s the talk! Now to help you
to do this, how would you like to take service under one of our gallant
independent leaders?’ he asked.

“‘One of the guerrilla chiefs, do you mean?’ I inquired.

“‘That’s what the lying Yankees call us, blast them! We are no more
guerrillas than we are Cossacks!’ exclaimed Haddycraff angrily.

“‘But for my part, I thank the Yankees for bestowing it. I should glory
in the name of guerrilla,’ I said.

“‘Ha, ha, ha! we have made it a terror to the clock-peddling heroes who
have mistaken their vocation and come down here to fight us,’ chuckled
Haddycraff.

“‘To be a gallant guerrilla is the height of my ambition,’ I said.

“‘Then how would you like service under the brave Free Sword?’

“‘The Free Sword!’ I exclaimed, with enthusiasm. ‘Oh, Heaven! I should
think it almost too much glory to hope for, to live and die in the
service of the great Free Sword!’

“‘And I tell you what, my boy, your ardent admiration of Colonel Corsoni
is shared by at least one-half the youth in Virginia.’

“‘But the cursed Yankees who burned my father’s house were saying among
themselves that the force of the Free Sword was entirely broken up and
scattered to the four winds, and that it never could be re-organized,’ I
said.

“‘Ho, ho, ho! And that is all they know about it, laughed Haddycraff;
‘and if you choose to go with me, and take service under the Free Sword,
you may know for yourself how little truth there is in those reports.’

“Well, my colonel, I agreed to accompany the guerrillas to the camp of
their chief. And so, when they had feasted at the expense of the farm
people, who were mostly women and negroes, and had loaded their mules
with farm produce, for which they paid in veritable greenbacks, we all
took the road through the woods for some miles, and then turned out of
the road in the thickest depths of the pathless forest, and with no
other guide than a pocket compass, found our way to the encampment of
the Free Sword.”

“And where was that?”

“On an old deserted plantation in a clearing of that same forest. The
approaches to the encampment were very strongly picketed. There was
strict military discipline observed. We reached head quarters just as
they were beating the reveillé, and in twenty minutes afterwards I was
ushered into the presence of the Free Sword. A very handsome fellow is
this celebrated guerrilla chief, my colonel, looking every inch a
brigand leader, however, and reminding one strongly of ‘Fra Diavolo’ in
the opera.”

“Yes, yes—I know the personal appearance of Vittorio Corsoni. I knew him
well in former days. He was a young Italian adventurer, and at the first
opportunity took to the guerrilla life as naturally as a duck to water.
How were you received by him?”

“Very, very kindly. He bent those large, dark eyes so earnestly upon me
while I was telling my piteous story of coming back to find a burning
homestead and a murdered father, with his ‘hoary head all dabbled with
his blood,’ that to escape his intense gaze I had to cover my face with
my hands and take refuge behind a flood of tears. And then what do you
think happened, Colonel?”

“What?”

“I felt the hand of the Free Sword laid gently on my head—gently as a
woman’s hand—and I heard his voice, saying:

“‘You shall stay with me and be my son, and I will avenge you on your
adversaries.’ It was as if the voice of a god of Olympus had spoken.”

“Are you an enthusiast, Wing?” inquired Col. Rosenthal.

“Perhaps, sir. Then, at least, when I looked up and saw tears of
compassion standing in brave Corsoni’s eyes—compassion for me, come to
his camp to betray him, I felt for a moment as if I were the caitiff and
traitor, and he were the hero and patriot; and I assure you, my Colonel,
that I had to remember he was in arms against our government before I
could reconcile myself to the part I had to play.”

“One might think you had fallen in love with the interesting brigand!”

“That would have been quite impossible for me, sir! Yet I do not wonder
that his wife did! nor that she keeps close to his side through all the
evils and dangers of his wild life!”

“You talk like a woman, Wing,” exclaimed the colonel, laughing.

“Perhaps I do, sir; but I acted like a man! like a very man!” retorted
Wing, sarcastically; “for I betrayed the host of whom I pretended to
seek refuge, and who promised to protect me and avenge my supposed
injuries!”

“And _now_ you talk like one particular woman whom I could name! But
proceed, my boy! How did you get on in the camp of the Free Sword?”

“Very successfully! He said that I was not stout enough for their hard,
military duty, so he placed me in attendance upon his wife. But I had
ample opportunities of finding out their plans; for the Free Sword had
no secrets from the devoted companions of his dangers. I learned, little
by little, that there was certainly a plan on foot to consolidate the
three great guerrilla bands, to make a raid into Pennsylvania or
Maryland; they had not decided which was to be the theatre of the
invasion. They were waiting for the arrival of Colonel Goldsborough, who
was daily expected.

“Go on.”

“Well, sir, I remained in the camp of the Free Sword for five days; but
I learned nothing more, because there was really nothing more to learn.
But on the evening of the fifth day there was a surprise.”

“Ah!”

“Not from our forces. The surprise was the sudden arrival of Colonel
Goldsborough with a female captive. He came in the dead of night, with
his prisoner bound on the horse behind him, and attended by a single
officer, the notorious Nicholas Mutchison, whose gigantic proportions
have in no degree been exaggerated by report.”

“Umph!”

“We learned from that loud-mouthed Mutchison, who told the story with
great gusto, that their band had surprised a picnic party near the Point
of Rocks; had exchanged their own foul and ragged clothing for the
holiday dresses of the gentlemen, as far as they would go; had eaten up
the picnic dinner and finished the evening by a ball in which they
danced with the ladies of the party; and finally had broken up their
bivouac in a hurry at the arrival of their chief and the announcement of
a squadron of Yankee cavalry near, and had brought off one young lady
captive, leaving all the others to find their way home as they could.”

“Where was this picnic party from?”

“Washington.”

“And—what young lady was that who was taken captive?” inquired Colonel
Rosenthal, with a dawning of anxiety.

“Mutchison called her Miss Fielding; Colonel Goldsborough called her
Elfie.”

“Good Heaven!”

“What is the matter, sir?”

“I know the young lady. She is an old friend of my sister. Go on, Wing.”

“Well, sir, the young lady was placed under the care of Madam Corsoni,
who made her comfortable—that is, as comfortable as any creature whose
every breath was a malediction could be made.”

“The young lady did not bear her captivity very patiently, then?”

“Patiently! I tell you, my Colonel, if I had been Albert Goldsborough I
had rather carried off bodily a well grown she-tiger. She had torn his
hair and whiskers out by the roots and had nearly clawed both his ears
off. His jaws will have to be bandaged for a month; and if he doesn’t
get erysipelas from his wounds, I don’t know what will prevent him.
Afterwards, while she was in the care of Madam Corsoni, as I said
before, she did nothing but breathe maledictions against him and his
band.”

“Very natural and extremely like her. Well, my boy, you say that was on
the evening of the fifth day; you must have left soon after that.”

“Yes, sir, I did. That night the Free Sword, much to his distaste, had
to give up his half of his lady’s chamber to her new guest; for as Madam
Corsoni was the only other woman in the encampment, she insisted on
keeping the young girl under her own immediate protection.”

“And she was quite right. Proceed, Wing.”

“That night the Free Sword, being banished from his wife’s quarters,
passed the hours with his guest, Colonel Goldsborough, in consultation
upon the combination of their forces for the projected raid. I kept the
door. In that interview it was decided that the three great bands
respectively commanded by Colonel Corsoni, Goldsborough and Monck,
should rendezvous at the Black Bear’s Pass, where the greater portion of
Goldsborough’s guerrillas had already preceded them, and where Monck’s
horde was expected to join them. It was arranged that they should march
the next day, if the weather should permit.”

“Well! Go on.”

“When I had heard so much, my Colonel, I thought it was about time for
me to make my escape from the Free Sword’s camp and carry the
information to the nearest Federal Fort. Soon as I was relieved from
duty at the office door, I took measures to get off unobserved.
Fortunately for me, there was a terrible storm arose. Under its cover I
made my escape.”

“How did you pass their pickets, my boy?”

“I crawled through the dense and pathless woods between the picket
stations, until I got quite clear of the encampment. Fate still favored
me. Outside I caught a horse all saddled and bridled, that seemed to
have broken away from his fastenings somewhere. Once mounted on the
horse, I dashed on as fast as possible towards Fort R., where I arrived
just before sunrise. I was stopped and questioned by our own pickets. I
had no pass-word, of course; but I told my story and was taken under
guard up to head quarters, where again to Colonel D. I told my story.
And in fifteen minutes or less time, two companies of cavalry were
mounted and off after the Free Sword. I was detained in a sort of
honorable captivity for several hours, and finally dismissed with a pass
to return to my regiment at H.”

“Before leaving Fort R., did you hear from the companies that went out
after Corsoni?”

“Yes, sir; some of the men returned to report to Col. W. that my
information was correct; that they had found the camp of the Free Sword
just where I had reported it to be; but that the band had probably
received information of the approach of our forces, for that they had
hastily evacuated the premises.”

“Then Corsoni and his band were not captured?”

“No, sir; but the cavalry were still in search of them when I left.”

“And that is all, Wing?”

“That is all, sir.”

“Well, Wing, I hardly know for which quality you deserve the most
praise: for your shrewdness, or for your courage. If I have any
influence in the proper quarters you shall receive a lieutenant’s
commission for this service.”

“Thanks, Colonel.”

“And if the Free Sword should really be captured upon the information
given by you, you will be entitled to a considerable portion of the
large reward offered for his apprehension.”

“Your pardon, sir. What I did was done for the service of my country and
for the pleasure of my Colonel. But not to save myself from perishing
would I touch a cent of the blood money!”

“Upon the whole I think you are right, Wing. In your place, _I_ would
not touch the reward, certainly. But the lieutenant’s commission—that is
an affair of another color, eh, boy?”

“Yes, sir. I hope I have earned that, or shall earn it in some nobler
manner than spying out and giving information against outlaws.”

As they spoke, they emerged from the forest out upon the broad high road
that skirted it.

“We are now about thirty miles from W., I think, Wing?” said the
colonel.

“Thirty-eight,” answered the boy.

“So far? Well, at least we shall reach the town by nightfall,” concluded
the colonel.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                              THE MEETING.

                “Ho! who rides there?
                The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel——
                      The rebels round them coming.”


And they turned to the right, and rode along the edge of the forest for
some four or five miles, when they saw approaching them from the
opposite direction a body of horsemen.

“That must be a detachment of our cavalry, Wing. What do you think?”

“I think it is, sir. But I can’t be sure yet. The clouds of dust prevent
my seeing them clearly,” answered the boy.

“And then they are so far off. Let me see,” said the Colonel, taking out
his field-glass and “sighting” the approaching party.

“I am nearly sure they are our men, sir,” said Hay, speaking for the
first time.

“Yes, it is a detachment of the cavalry now stationed at W. What is
afoot, I wonder?” exclaimed the Colonel putting spurs to his horse and
galloping forward to meet the advancing party.

The officer in command of the squadron rode out to receive him.

The two met like old friends.

“Ho! Colonel Rosenthal! Happy to see you. Heard of your promotion this
morning. Allow me to congratulate—no, not you, but—the regiment, on the
acquisition of so brave a soldier and able an officer. I wish my company
belonged to your regiment,” said the cavalry officer.

“Thanks, Major O’Neale. But—what’s out?”

“What’s out? The guerrillas. They are swarming into this neighborhood
like seven year locusts. Goldsborough’s guerrillas have made a raid upon
a party of excursionists near the Point of Rocks, and robbed them of
everything even to the clothes they stood up in—even to their sacred
linen?”

“Yes, I heard of that. A squadron of cavalry from Fort W. is out after
them, but they are encamped somewhere near the Black Bear’s Pass, far
enough from here,” said Colonel Rosenthal.

“Ah! is that so? Then there is no chance of falling in with them
hereabouts?”

“None in the world.”

“And the Free Sword has re-appeared!”

“He has joined issue with Goldsborough, and their forces are united.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“I am quite certain of _that_, and I am half suspicious that you are out
on a wild goose chase if you are after guerillas,” laughed Colonel
Rosenthal.

“Not quite so fast. You have accounted satisfactorily for the Free Sword
and for Goldsborough. But here is Monck suddenly sprung up with all his
band from Heaven knows where. And they are ravaging the country right
and left. It is after Monck especially, and not after the other two,
that we are sent out,” said Major O’Neale.

“Monck, I think, will be found somewhere in the neighborhood of the
Black Bear’s Pass, where he is expected to combine with Goldsborough and
Corsoni for a new raid on an extensive scale. Thanks to the courage and
discretion of my young orderly here, whom I sent as a spy into the camp
of the Free Sword, I am in possession of all their plans, which I intend
to reveal to General W. as soon as I get into the town.”

Major O’Neale deigned to turn his eyes for a moment upon the young
orderly whom Col. Rosenthal had praised; but the question of the
guerrillas was of too absorbing interest to admit of a moment’s
wandering from the subject, and so he replied:

“Your information, obtained by so much courage and tact, and at so great
a risk, may be very correct. I have no doubt that Corsoni and
Goldsborough may both be at the Black Bear’s Pass, and that Monck may be
on his way to join them; but, in the meantime, it is certain that he is
ravaging the country about here. I suppose a score of fugitives have
rushed into W. within the last twelve hours with tales of Monck’s
burnings and wastings.”

“Then there can be no mistake about his near neighborhood.”

“None in the world. But the question is, where did his band spring from?
One would think that they had sprung full grown, armed and equipped, out
of the ground, like the myrmidons of classic story.”

“These vast forests afford too good a cover for these bandits. They
should all be levelled,” said Colonel Rosenthal.

“But what a Herculean labor. And think how many of them _have_ been
levelled——But you, Colonel, you are going on to W.?”

“Of course.”

“And with only these two orderlies by way of a body guard?——”

“Just as you see.”

“I strongly advise you not to do so. The road is certainly very unsafe,”
said Major O’Neale.

“It is the road you have just passed?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw nothing of these reported guerrillas?”

“No—not a hair! But then they would not be apt to show themselves to a
force like ours. But you and your two orderlies, Colonel, would be a
great temptation to them. If I might do so, I should strongly urge you
not to go forward, but to turn back with us!”

“I am ordered to proceed to W. immediately to take command of my
regiment, and I must go on,” said Colonel Rosenthal, decisively.

“Then allow me to detail a portion of my men to guard you on your way,
Colonel.”

“Not on any account. It would be very unwise for you to do so; for the
withdrawal of such a number of your men as could be of any sort of use
to me, in case of an encounter with Monck, would so weaken your force as
to leave it liable to capture. No, I must go on with my boys and trust
to Providence,” said Colonel Rosenthal.

Major O’Neale still respectfully remonstrated, but with little effect.

“If you were to divide your men you would render your own force
inefficient, without affording me adequate protection,” said Colonel
Rosenthal.

And so the friends parted—each going opposite ways—Major O’Neale and his
command towards the ridge, and Colonel Rosenthal and his orderlies
towards W.

The colonel with his attendants rode on a mile or two, and then, as the
sun was sinking to his setting, they entered an arm of the forest.

“After all, I doubt whether we shall reach W. before dark. We must be
still twenty-five miles off,” remarked Colonel Rosenthal.

“Sir, we are thirty,” answered Wing.

“These Virginia miles are certainly the longest I ever travelled,”
laughed Colonel Rosenthal.

They went on, their path becoming narrower and more obstructed as they
penetrated farther and farther into the depths of the forest. Sunset
faded into twilight and twilight deepened into night. And the road
became so narrow and obstructed that they had to ride in single
file—Wing going before, Colonel Rosenthal riding in the middle and Hay
bringing up the rear. So they proceeded slowly and silently for some
distance, until at length Colonel Rosenthal drawing rein, called to his
advance guard:

“Wing!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fall behind, my boy! If we are to have the honor of meeting Major
Monck, or any of his men, I would prefer to be ‘to the fore’ to welcome
them.

The young orderly obeyed promptly, though unwillingly enough, for he
would have preferred to make of his own person a shield and breastplate
to guard his colonel’s precious life.

“I say, Wing,” whispered young Hay, as once more they rode nearly side
by side, “this is a demon of a dark road to meet the guerrillas in!”

“So it is,” admitted Wing.

“How far are we from W. now?”

“About twenty-two miles.”

“When does the moon rise, do you know?”

“About nine o’clock.”

“And it is not more than seven now. And we have two hours of black
darkness before us.”

“Oh, we shall get into W. by the time the moon rises.”

“And who will thank the moon for rising then? We want light now!”

“Well we have light. I am sure the stars are coming out very brightly,”
said Wing, encouragingly.

But Hay declined to be encouraged.

“Oh, yes! the stars are bright enough—what we can see of them through
the upper branches of these thick cedar trees,” grumbled Hay.

“Look,” said Wing, as they were passing through a fordable stream that
crossed their path—“look how clearly the stars are reflected in the
water under our feet! and then tell me if you do not see enough of them
and if they are not bright.”

“Well, I suppose our eyes are getting used to the darkness, and we can
see better now, that is all,” grumbled Hay.

After crossing the stream, they found the forest road a little clearer,
so that Wing was enabled to ride up side by side with his colonel.

“We are not more than twenty miles from W. now, sir,” said the boy,
cheerfully.

“Twenty Virginia miles, Wing, which means twenty-five of any other
sort,” replied the colonel.

“Hist! what is that?” cried Wing, in a low, breathless voice.

“What?” inquired the colonel, drawing rein.

“Where?” questioned Hay, riding up.

“That glittering object on the left hand of the road!—Oh, I see what it
is now!” exclaimed Wing.

And they all looked and saw—not only one bayonet, but twenty or thirty,
projecting from the thicket each side of the road, and gleaming faintly
in the starlight.

“It is the guerrilla band. Retreat!” cried Colonel Rosenthal, raising
his hand and turning his horse’s head. His two followers also turned.

But their road in the rear was bristling each side with bayonets.
Retreat was cut off.

“Dash forward, then!” exclaimed Colonel Rosenthal, drawing his sword,
wheeling, and putting spurs to his horse.

“Halt, you cursed Yankees!” yelled a guerrilla, leaping into the middle
of the road, followed by all his band, who closed in upon the three
travellers, surrounding them with a fence of fixed bayonets.

Of course the travellers had no other alternative than to halt.

“Surrender, blast you!” thundered the same voice that had ordered the
halt.

“Bring your leader here, or conduct us to his presence,” said Colonel
Rosenthal, sternly.

“I am the leader of this band, curse you! Hand me your sword before I
wrench it out of your hand!” roared the brute.

“I think you would find that a rather difficult feat to perform, my
friend,” said the colonel, grasping his weapon with a firmer hold, and
frowning so sternly that the guerrilla, surrounded by his band as he
was, quailed before the soldier.

“Will you hand me your sword, dash you?” thundered the bully, at length
plucking up a spirit.

“No—not to you! I ordered you to take me to your chief, or to bring him
to me,” said Colonel Rosenthal, firmly.

“And who are you, curse you, to give orders here?” demanded the
guerrilla.

“I am one who will be obeyed,” answered the colonel.

The guerrilla replied by a volley of oaths which were, however,
interrupted by another member of the band, who came suddenly upon the
scene, and “spoke as one having authority.”

“Crowfield, what is the meaning of this?”

“It is this blasted Yankee prisoner, who won’t give up his sword until I
tear it from his beastly hands. Demands to be taken before Major Monck,
or to have Major Monck brought to him—devil burn him!” answered the
savage.

“Crowfield, you are wrong. This is Colonel Rosenthal, and Major Monck’s
orders were strict, that when he should be taken, he should be treated
with courtesy, and conducted at once to his head quarters.”

“Oh, yes! that’s the way with the major! He’ll take a prisoner, feast a
prisoner, and then hang a prisoner; but all in courtesy! Oh, yes!
whatever the major does is always done in courtesy. As for me, I’d
rather blast a Yankee and let him go, than bless him and hang him, as
our major does. You’ll find worse fellows in the world than I am, if you
wouldn’t give me up your sword, Colonel Prisoner,” said the guerrilla,
nodding to Colonel Rosenthal.

“Sergeant Crowfield, you are drunk! and I’ll give you until four o’clock
to-morrow morning to get sober in!”

“Captain Bannister, you’re a heap drunker ’n I am, and so I’ll give you
until four o’clock to-morrow _afternoon_ to get sober in!”

“You are under arrest, sir. Blake! take his musket and look after him,”
said the angry officer.

When these orders were obeyed, Captain Bannister turned to the prisoner
and said:

“Colonel Rosenthal, we will take you to Major Monck’s head quarters that
are only about three miles from this spot.”

Colonel Rosenthal bowed gravely and silently.

The guerrilla captain then placed a guard around the prisoners, and
marshalled his band, and gave the order to march.

The body, consisting of about sixty well-armed men, moved forward upon
the same road leading towards W., for some three quarters of a mile, and
struck into a path on the right hand side of their way winding into the
very innermost recesses of the wilderness.

Colonel Rosenthal rode on without exchanging a word with one of his
guard.

Wing and Hay conversed in whispers whenever they could do so with
impunity.

“Here’s a go!” muttered Hay. “I wish the colonel had taken Major
O’Neale’s advice and turned back with the cavalry.”

“So do not I. The gallant colonel had done his duty, and the result is
with the Lord,” answered Wing.

“Yes, I know. But this Monck doesn’t care for Lord or devil. He is as
much worse than the Free Sword as an assassin is worse than a mere
duellist. He is the coldest blooded demon alive! You will never see him
excited; but he has been known to hang a prisoner before the door of his
quarters, and sit down and eat his breakfast while enjoying a full view
of the death agonies of the hanging and struggling victim!”

“May Heaven protect and deliver our colonel!” exclaimed Wing, clasping
his hands in prayer.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                      THE GUERRILLA’S ENCAMPMENT.

     Into a forest far they thence him led,
       Where was their dwelling in a pleasant shade,
     With mountains round about environed.
       And mighty woods which did the valley shade,
     And like a stately theatre it made,
       Spreading itself into a spacious plain;
     And in the midst a little river played
       Amongst the pumy stones and seemed to ‘plain
     With gentle murmur that his course they did restrain.—SPENSER.


The forest was almost impenetrably thick and intensely dark. The closely
intermingling boughs overhead shut out every ray of starlight. And the
moon had not yet risen. The darkness, the stillness and the silence of
this wilderness was very solemn and almost appalling and overpowering.
No object could be seen; they moved through thickest night and blackest
shadow; nothing could be felt but the dampness of the air and the cold
touch of the clustering leaves, and no sound could be heard but the
muffled tread of their horses’ hoofs, the hoarse hoot of an owl, or the
shrill cry of the whippowil.

Their progress through the forest was necessarily very slow, for the
band was partly on foot, and the cavalry had to accommodate its pace to
the infantry, whom it did not wish to leave behind. The path also was
often so narrow and obstructed that they had to march in single file,
Captain Bannister leading the way, followed by Colonel Rosenthal and a
guard and young Wing, and another guard and Hay, and then the horse and
lastly the foot.

After marching on in this tedious manner for nearly forty minutes, they
came suddenly upon a picket guard so well concealed that though they—the
pickets—could command the approach to their station, no one not familiar
with their cover could suspect their presence there.

All in the darkness, the arriving band was challenged with the usual:

“Who goes there?”

Captain Bannister answered and gave the pass-word: and then exclaimed:

“You are as dark as the Stygian lake here, Griffin! What the d—— do you
mean by it? I had nearly ridden over you.”

“The orders were to show no lights, Captain.”

“Humph! What is the news, Griffin?”

“Wiley has captured a sutler’s wagon with a lot of liquor and
provisions, Captain. The major will feast you all to-night and give the
men double rations, and to-morrow we are to have double rations of food
and grog also.”

“That _is_ good news indeed, Griffin, to men who have been on short
commons as long as we have.”

“Hope you’ve had success, Captain. So dark I can’t see who is with you,
sir.”

“Yes, we have secured the rich prize we went to seek. Good night,
Griffin,” said Bannister, passing on his way, followed by all his band.

The approach to Monck’s camp was very strongly picketed; they passed
several other guards, but all concealed in thick wood and deep darkness,
out of which they watched and listened like crouching tigers for their
prey.

At length the band emerged from the forest and came upon the deep and
narrow river, beyond which arose a nearly perpendicular range of
mountains, dimly seen in the starlight.

Here the officer in command of the party halted and took a whistle from
his pocket and blew a shrill blast.

It was answered from the other side; and almost immediately the plash of
oars was heard, and a ferry-boat was seen to move across the water.

It was little better than a scow; but it accommodated the three
prisoners with their immediate guard. When they were all in the boat,
Captain Bannister told the ferryman to make haste and put them across
the river; and the ferryman and his assistants promptly obeyed, laying
themselves to their oars with good will.

While they were crossing the captain questioned the ferryman:

“What news in the camp, Horne?”

“Well, sir, Sergeant Wiley and about thirty of the men surprised a
sutler’s wagon that was a straggling behind its train, and captured it,
with three prisoners and a quantity of stores. All the men but the
pickets had double rations. The major wouldn’t give them double because
he wanted them to be very sharp to-night; but to-morrow they are to have
double grog as well as double rations.”

“Yes—I heard about that. Anything else?”

“Well, sir, Captain Miller has gone out with his company to waylay a
train of army wagons as our scouts report to be crossing the valley, on
their way to W.; but he is not expected back to-night.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I think it was a bad move. The valley is all
up, bristling with Yankee rifles. A little devil of a spy got into the
camp of the Free Sword, and afterwards ran away and betrayed his retreat
to the Yankees. He had to evacuate his camp in great haste.”

“What a blasted bit of bad luck!” exclaimed the ferryman.

“Yes; and that is not all. Goldsborough—well, he’s not the first great
soldier that ever lost the world for a woman—Goldsborough, instigated by
the demon, made a dash across the river below the Point of Rocks and
surprised a picnic party for no other purpose than to carry off a
certain girl.”

“What a blamed fool—begging your pardon, Captain!”

“Yes, he was all that. And, the result of all this is that there are no
less than three companies of cavalry out in search of us in different
directions. The chances are that Miller will meet with some of them.”

As Captain Bannister spoke the boat grated upon the sands of the shore,
and the party prepared to land.

The captain walked his horse out first, and was followed by the others
of the party in the same manner.

Leaving the ferryman to go back after the remainder of the band, Captain
Bannister led his party by a steep, narrow and winding path up the
mountain side, passing many picket guards, by whom they were challenged,
and to whom he gave the countersign.

As they reached the summit, the moon, large, round, and red as a ball of
fire, was rising behind a dark, green cedar wood in the valley before
them.

“There are the head quarters of Major Monck,” said the captain to his
prisoner, pointing down into the thickly wooded valley.

He then led the way down this side of the mountain by a path as steep,
narrow and winding as that by which they had ascended on the other side,
and they met as many pickets as before.

Arrived at the foot of the precipice, the captain led the way into the
cedar thicket, “where path there was none;” but by some occult method of
his own, or some signs unintelligible to the uninitiated, he took his
party on until they came to a low worm-fence surrounding a clearing in
the very centre of the woods.

At regular intervals of space sentinels marched to and fro before this
fence.

One of them challenged Captain Bannister, who gave the countersign, and
immediately passed with his party through the gate.

Within the rude enclosure, which seemed to have been an old field, there
was a busy, picturesque, enlivening scene.

Camp fires were scattered all over the area, and around them were
grouped the men—some cooking their rations; some eating their suppers;
some drinking whiskey, smoking pipes, and playing cards, and some lying
flat upon their stomachs, with their limbs extended, their elbows
resting on the ground, and their heads bowed upon their hands, while, by
the light of the blazing pine knots, they studied the pictorial papers
which were a part of the plunder that had been taken from the captured
sutler’s wagon.

Through this crowd the captain conducted his party towards an old,
common-looking and rather dilapidated farm-house that stood among its
out-buildings at the farther end of the area. Beyond these buildings
groups of cows and horses might be dimly seen.

The whole place was a combination of a ruined farm and a military
encampment.

The house itself, on nearer approach, was seen to be a large, rude
wooden building of one story, with a very steep roof, and with a rough
piazza running the whole length of the front. One large door, with a
window on each side, opened upon this. Here also were groups of men
lounging on the steps and in the corners, while before the door a
sentinel stood guard.

Captain Bannister dismounted, and signed to his prisoners to do the
same. Then he called a man to take the horses, and beckoned the
prisoners to follow him.

He led them by the front door into a large passage running through to
the back of the house, and from which other doors opened leading into
rooms on the right and left.

This passage was dimly lighted by a tallow candle, stuck into a tin
sconce nailed against the wall.

Several soldiers were lounging here, and three or four were guarding a
small group of prisoners at the farther end of the place.

A sentinel stood before the second door on the left hand.

“Remain here with your attendants if you please, Colonel, while I go in
and make my report to my major,” said Captain Bannister, politely
addressing his captive.

Then turning to some of the lounging soldiers, he called them to come
and guard these prisoners.

Four of the men approached at his bidding, and gathered around Colonel
Rosenthal and his young orderlies.

Meanwhile the captain entered the second door on the left, which was
guarded by a sentinel, and which was probably the office of the
guerrilla chief.

Colonel Rosenthal, left with his party, looked around upon the
contracted scene, noticed the dilapidated walls, the uneven floor, the
ricketty doors of the hall, and the ragged, wretched, famished aspect of
its guerrilla occupants.

Then he turned his eyes towards the extreme back of the place, where, in
a dark corner, were the three other prisoners, with their guard about
them.

Two of these prisoners were men, and they were standing up, and even in
this obscure light, Colonel Rosenthal thought he could recognize
something familiar in the aspect of the taller of these men.

The third prisoner was a woman, and was seated on the ground, with her
apron thrown over her head.

While Justin was still looking at the group, and trying to remember who
the tall man might be, the latter stooped and whispered to the woman,
who then suddenly threw her apron down and turned her head.

Justin was standing where the faint light of the candle in the sconce
fell upon him, and, though he could not distinctly see the other
prisoners in their obscure corner, they could see him quite plainly.

So, the instant after the woman had turned her head towards him, she
leaped up and sprang past her guards before they could prevent her, and
almost threw herself into Justin’s arms, exclaiming frantically:

“Och, glory be to the Lord! is it yourself, Mr. Rosenthal, dear?—And how
is Miss Conyers, sure?”

“JUDITH!” cried Justin, in unbounded astonishment.

“Och, yis; it’s meself, sure, Lorrd kape me!”

“I am glad and sorry to see you, my girl. How came you here?” inquired
Justin.

“And is it how came I here? Sure didn’t thim bastes iv gorrillas—divil
burn thim, for they’re worse nor the pirates thimselves—didn’t they
saize our wagon, and rob us iv every blessed thing we possessed in the
world, and thin bring us here? That the Lorrd may smite thim!” exclaimed
Judith, fervently.

“Then you belonged to that sutler’s wagon which was captured?” inquired
Justin.

“First and foremost, I belonged to the divil himself, or I niver would
be torminted as I am!” said Judith, impatiently.

“But you _were_ in the sutler’s wagon, were you not?” again inquired
Justin.

“Oh, ay, yes; bad luck to it, I was in the sutler’s wagon whin thim
haythins saized it. And be the same token, I hope you’ve come with your
army to hang ivery one iv thim!”

“Why, Judith, what are you thinking of, my girl? Don’t you see that I am
a prisoner like yourself?” said Justin.

“You a prisoner! Sure the thaives niver had the impudence to make you a
prisoner?” exclaimed Judith, in consternation.

“It is as you see, my girl,” answered Colonel Rosenthal, smiling in
spite of his misfortunes.

“Thin the world must be coming to an ind! And serve it right; for it’s a
baste iv a world altogether, where a Christian can’t sail upon the say
without the fear iv shipwrecks, and desert islands, and say-fights, and
pirates, and the like; and can’t travel upon the land itself without
falling among thaives!” exclaimed the woman.

“But, Judith, my girl, how did you happen to be among the sutlers?”
inquired Justin.

“D’ye see me gay Tom there, with his head bound up? He is always getting
his crown cracked, is me gay Tom. If he hadn’t a hard Scotch head, he’d
been dead long ago. D’ye see him, mind?”

“Yes,” replied Justin, now turning to look again at the tall man, and
recognizing McAlpine.

“Well, sure, me gay Tom, bad luck to his Scotch greediness for money,
must turn sutler, so he must. And so that was the way I came to be among
them; for ye didn’t think I was going to lave him to his own devices so
far as to let him go alone, did ye?”

“I don’t know,” laughed Justin; “but how came you to be captured?”

“Sure the divil got into the horses, and we couldn’t make them go along,
and keep up with the train; and we fell behind! That was how it was, let
alone the fact that if there is any sort iv a misfortune at all at all,
going round, meself is always sure to fall into it! Sure and wasn’t I
shipwrecked, and left for dead on a baste iv an island? And didn’t I
meet with thim haythen iv pirates, and get into a say fight? And don’t
it follow in coorse that whin I took to the suttling line iv business I
should fall among thaives? Sure it’s me luck!—Tom! bad manners to ye!
why don’t ye come and spake to the gentleman?” inquired Judith, suddenly
breaking off from her discourse, and addressing her husband.

McAlpine, nodding and growling something in reply, made a step forward
to comply with this suggestion. But the guard who had permitted the
woman to talk to the new prisoner, would on no account allow the man to
do so, and Judith’s gay Tom had to keep his place.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                                 MONCK.

             The fellow was a sordid soul
               Such as does murder for a meed;
             Who, but of fear, knows no control,
             Because his conscience, seared and foul,
               Feels not the import of his deed;
             One whose brute feeling ne’er aspires
             Beyond his own more brute desires.
             Such tools the Tempter ever needs
             To do the savagest of deeds,
             For them no vision’d terrors daunt,
             Their nights no fancied spectres haunt.—SCOTT.


At this moment Captain Bannister came out of Monck’s room, and
addressing his prisoner, said:

“Major Monck is not prepared to see you this evening. You will be in my
charge for the night, and I will try to make your captivity as agreeable
as may be consistent with my duty and your safety.”

Justin bowed in acknowledgment of this courtesy, but made no other
answer.

The captain then dismissed the guard from his own three prisoners, and
requested the latter to follow him.

He opened a door on the right hand of the hall, and immediately opposite
Monck’s door, and led them into a large, square room, with a low ceiling
and bare walls, windows and floor.

It was poorly furnished with a camp bedstead, a pine table, and half a
dozen three-legged stools, all of which seemed to be the workmanship of
an amateur carpenter, and with an old mahogany beaufet, a worm-eaten
walnut wash-stand and a dilapidated arm-chair that appeared to be a part
of the original furniture of the farm-house, left behind by the owners
as too worthless to carry away.

The huge fireplace contained nothing but charcoal and ashes; the fire
had gone out hours before.

“Bring some kindling wood here quickly, Ellis, and if there is none
handy, take one of the back shutters off the hinges, and split it up. We
must have a fire here directly. This place is as damp and musty as a
vault. And here! Tell Thomas we want supper immediately,” were the
orders issued by Captain Bannister to his orderly, as they all entered
the dreary room.

“Sit down, Colonel Rosenthal,” he continued, pushing a dilapidated
arm-chair towards his prisoner guest. “And boys, you needn’t stand on my
account. Find stools and seat yourselves,” he added, addressing Wing and
Hay.

He himself stood with his back leaning against the fireless chimney.

Very soon the man called Ellis entered with his arms full of kindling
wood, that seemed to be the fragments of a broken up green door or
shutter.

A fire was soon lighted, and its cheerful blaze illumined the whole
room.

“Now supper as soon as possible, Ellis,” said the captain, as he stood
and spread his hands before the flame.

“Thomas is getting it ready as fast as he can, sir,” answered the man.

“What have you got to give us?”

“Chickens and ducks, sir; brought away from a Union hen-house by Atkins
and some of our boys to-day, and ham, and tea, and coffee, and sugar,
got along with the sutler’s stores,” said the man, with a low, half
uttered chuckle.

“Come, we shall fare sumptuously!” laughed Bannister. “But here, Ellis,
this light wood will soon burn out. Bring in one or two heavy green
logs, and throw them on to keep the fire,” he added.

The man left the room to obey, and presently returned with the logs,
which he threw upon the fire.

He was soon followed by another man with a dish of fried chickens in one
hand, and a plate of broiled ham in the other, both of which he set upon
the table.

“We have to dispense with table-cloths in camp, Colonel,” said
Bannister, laughing, as he stood and arranged the two dishes to his
liking.

Meantime the cook made several journeys to and from the room, during
which he placed upon the table bread, biscuits, butter, tea, coffee,
sugar, condensed milk, cheese, and, last and best of all—SALT.

“Heaven! how thankful to fate I am for that sutler’s wagon, even if it
had furnished us with nothing but salt! Do you know, Colonel, that one
of the greatest privations of our lives is the lack of that once cheap
and common necessary of life, table salt! The river supplies us with
fish, the forests with game, the farms with meat, poultry, eggs,
vegetables, and breadstuffs; but where—oh! where are we to obtain a
continuous supply of salt? One of our boys, a prisoner in the old
Capitol at Washington, was permitted to write home to his friends. He
wrote: ‘Everything is d—d here except in one respect: we have salt in
our soup!’ That letter was suppressed when it reached our camp. That one
line would have formed much too great a temptation for our men to permit
themselves to be taken prisoners, so that they might get salt to their
soup! But come, Colonel, while I talk the coffee is cooling. Sit up, sit
up, and try to make the best of matters by making a good meal,” said
Captain Bannister; and with this “grace before meat,” he seated himself
at the table and began to help his prisoner guest.

Justin, notwithstanding his misfortunes, really did make a good meal,
though not a very merry one; for he was hungry, he was also tired, and
likewise a little sulky, as indeed what prisoner would not be?

When the two officers had supped and were satisfied, the two boys, Wing
and Hay, were supplied with supper. After which the camp service was
cleared away by Ellis and Thomas.

“I can offer you half my hard bed, Colonel; but the boys will have to
take each a blanket and content themselves with the bare floor,” said
Captain Bannister.

Again Justin bowed in silence. He could feed, because feeding is one of
the absolute necessities of life; but he could not converse complacently
with his captor.

The programme pointed out by Bannister was followed.

Justin Rosenthal laid down to take his night’s rest beside his guerrilla
captor.

Hay wrapped himself in the blanket that was given him and stretched his
chilled and tired frame upon the hearth before the fire.

But Wing went prowling about the room until he found a large closet; and
then he asked permission to sleep within it. And as the closet
communicated only with the room, and had no outlet by which the prisoner
could escape, this permission was readily granted.

Only Hay was dissatisfied.

“It’s just like that sulky, unsocial fellow, Wing—always poking himself
off by himself; and yes, by ganny! always finding a place to poke
himself into besides,” growled the boy, as he settled himself to rest.

Fatigue is such a solicitor of sleep, that with a clear conscience and a
sound constitution a tired man must sleep under the most inauspicious
circumstances.

So Justin Rosenthal, despite his captivity, fell into a deep and
dreamless slumber that lasted until morning, when the beating of the
reveillé in the guerrilla camp aroused him. But even then, on first
waking, he thought it was the reveillé of his own camp. And it was not
until he saw his bedfellow rising that he recollected his circumstances.

“I hope you have slept well, Colonel,” exclaimed his captor, who was
then standing by the bed, drawing on his trowsers.

“Thank you, yes,” rather surlily answered Justin.

And there the brief conversation ended.

As for young Hay, he slept so soundly that it required several sharp
salutes from the boots of Bannister before he could be brought to
consciousness.

“Come, you little Yankee whelp! up with you there! Is that the way you
Union fellows sleep in camp when the reveillé is rolling in your ears?
Because if it is, I don’t wonder we whip you wherever we meet you. Up I
say!” exclaimed Bannister, with a vigorous blow from his boots.

“Aw-w-w! Yes,” yawned poor Hay, but half awake, and dreaming that he was
surprised by the enemy in his own camp. “Aw-w-w! yes. Any of the Rebs
round?”

“‘Any of the Rebs round,’ you little reptile? Well, yes, I reckon the
Rebs are round—slightuously!” laughed the captain.

Hay got up, stretched himself, stared about, saw his colonel, and then
recollected everything.

But it was not until the two officers were quite dressed that Wing came
out of the closet where he had passed the night.

Soon afterwards Captain Bannister’s two men came in and arranged the
room, kindled the fire, and set the table for breakfast, and placed upon
it strong coffee, sugar, milk and cream; and good bread, butter, ham and
fish.

After breakfast Captain Bannister went to Monck for instructions, and
after an absence of half an hour returned to his prisoners, and
addressing Colonel Rosenthal, said:

“Major Monck is not well this morning, and will not be able to see you
for some hours. But he has authorized me to take your parole, and give
you the freedom of the camp.”

Since there was no good alternative Justin gave his parole.

“Now go where you please within the limits of this camp, Colonel, and
return when you like to this room, which will be your quarters. But
report to me, if you please, at sharp noon,” said Captain Bannister.

Justin bowed acquiescence; but his heart was too full of chagrin and
mortification to permit him to speak.

The privilege granted to Colonel Rosenthal was also extended to his
orderlies, who gladly availed themselves of it by getting permission of
their colonel to leave the room, and leaving it immediately.

Colonel Rosenthal also strolled out into the air.

The morning was clear and frosty; and the scenery around the old
farm-house was very fine. Nearest the house there was an old garden, in
which a few late roses still bloomed, and a few fall vegetables grew.
Farther on there were apple and peach orchards, but the trees were
stripped of their fruit. Beyond these were old fields, studded here and
there with monstrous forest trees. Around the whole was a circle of
thick woods. And behind them arose the wall of mountains.

When Justin Rosenthal went out upon the camp ground, in front of the
house, he found the drums beating and the men mustering for the company
drill.

He saw Hay standing gazing upon the scene. His other orderly was nowhere
to be seen.

“Where is Wing?” inquired Justin.

“I don’t know, sir; he walked away by himself. He never stops with me,
or any of the boys, when he can help it,” answered Hay, touching his
cap.

Colonel Rosenthal nodded, and strolled on, followed by Hay.

“So it appears that the great Major Monck cannot receive us this
morning,” said Colonel Rosenthal, speaking more to himself than to his
orderly.

“No, sir! May I tell you why, sir?” briskly asked Hay.

“Why, they say that he is indisposed.”

“He is getting over a glorious old drunk, sir!”

“Hay!”

“Yes, he is, sir! The men are all saying it! I heard them muttering
about it. They whisper that the ‘intoxified brute’—that’s what they
called him—fuddled himself last night with the sutler’s brandy, and
couldn’t lift his head from his pillow this morning, if it had been to
save the camp.”

“The men speak so of their leader, Hay?”

“Yes, sir! in whisperings and mutterings! But you know how sharp my ears
are, sir! and I used them and heard enough to feel sure that the great
Monck’s band are what they call disinfected.”

“Dis_af_fected, you mean, my boy.”

“Well, sir, dis_af_fected, if that means that they have taken a
misliking to their commander.”

“It means something of the sort, if it is true, Hay,” said his colonel.

They strolled on, and passed through a broken gate into the old garden,
where they came upon Wing, standing among the bushes, and gazing in a
meditative manner upon a bunch of pale, autumn roses he had just
gathered.

“A penny for your thoughts, my boy,” said Colonel Rosenthal, kindly.

“They are not worth the penny, sir. I was only thinking of these pale
roses trying to bloom in the frosty air; how like they are to human
hopes trying still to keep alive in the midst of cold and killing
disappointment and despair.”

“The roses will bloom again in spring, and hope revive again in heaven,
Wing,” said Colonel Rosenthal, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s head.

After that the three strolled on together for a while and then
separated, each going his own way.

At noon Colonel Rosenthal, according to his promise, returned to the
house, to report himself. He went straight to his quarters, where he
found Wing and Hay also waiting; and where they were soon after joined
by Captain Bannister.

“All right,” answered the latter, when his prisoners had formally
reported.

“And now, Colonel Rosenthal,” he added, “Major Monck is prepared to
receive you, and I am ready to escort you to his presence.”

Justin bowed and followed Bannister, who led the way out of the room,
across the hall, and through the opposite door, that admitted them into
the apartment occupied by Monck.

It was a chamber exactly similar in size and appearance to the one they
had just left. But it was furnished rudely as an office or sitting-room,
with rough-hewn tables, chairs, stands and shelves. The floor, walls and
windows were bare, but there was a fine fire of pine wood blazing in the
chimney, and diffusing an air of cheerfulness even over this dreary
scene.

Four or five soldiers lounged about the room, standing before the fire
or gazing out of the windows.

A large, square deal table stood in the middle of the floor. Seated at
it, and gazing at a map spread out before him, was the guerrilla Monck.
This notorious leader, hated even by his own men, needs here a
particular description. In the first place, he did not look the least
like the popular idea of a guerrilla, or even of a soldier. He looked
far more like a rogue and a hypocrite.

He was a very large, fat, fair man, with a round head, covered with
short cropped flaxen hair, a big white face, pale grey eyes, and full,
sensual lips. He was dressed in a loose fitting suit of Confederate
gray. And his broad-brimmed, soft felt hat lay on the table before him.
If he had been really intoxicated the night before, there was little in
his lymphatic appearance to betray the fact now.

All these circumstances Colonel Rosenthal had time to observe while
waiting for the great leader to look up from his map, and deign to
notice his visitors.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                        A COLD-BLOODED SENTENCE.

             ’Tis now past midnight, and by eight to-morrow
             Thou must be made immortal. If I must die,
             I will encounter darkness as a bride,
             And hug it to my breast.—SHAKSPEARE.


At length Monck looked up from his map, but he turned his heavy white
face towards Colonel Rosenthal and stared with his big blue eyes
straight through that gentleman’s head as if it had not stood in his
line of vision. Monck was evidently in a maze, being still bewildered
with his geographical puzzles.

With a courteous bow and wave of his hand towards his companions,
Captain Bannister motioned him up to the guerrilla chief and presented
him.

“Colonel Rosenthal, of the —— Cavalry. Major Monck.”

“Colonel Rosenthal, I am very glad to see you—very glad indeed! I can
say these words with more truth than they are usually said. Indeed I was
so desirous of entertaining you, that hearing you were on your way to
W., attended by a single orderly, I sent out a special detachment of my
best men to meet and escort you here. Again I say I am delighted to make
your acquaintance. How are you, sir?” said Monck, with a sort of cold
jocularity, extending his fat hand to his prisoner.

But Colonel Rosenthal ignored the hand and retreating a step, bowed
coldly.

“Take a seat, sir—take a seat. Make yourself at home. We hope to enjoy
the pleasure of your company for a good long while. We shall hold you in
a sort of honorable captivity, as a hostage for the safety of some of
our poor fellows now pining in the clock-peddlers’ prisons. Sit down,
sir. Pray sit down. But let us find a chair first. Here! you! Hoskins!
bring a chair this way for the gentleman. I hope we shall spend a
pleasant season together, Colonel Rosenthal.”

One of the men brought forward a rude wooden chair, probably of camp
manufacture, and Justin threw himself into it.

Monck squared himself for a talk. Placing his big hands upon his fat
knees, and staring blankly straight before him, as seemed his senseless
habit, he began by saying:

“I hope, sir, you found your quarters agreeable.”

“I believe, sir, Captain Bannister did his best to make them so,”
answered Justin, coldly.

“That was right. By the way, Captain Bannister, you can retire,” said
Monck, turning towards his officer, who immediately left the room.

“And your rations, sir? How were they?” inquired Monck, squaring towards
his prisoner again.

“I found no fault with them.”

“That is well. Nor, to tell the honest truth, do I think that you had
any reason to do so. We have a plenty of provender just now. The capture
of that sutler’s wagon was a great stroke of good fortune. It came in
the nick of time, when we were expecting distinguished company, you
see—ho! ho! ho! Well, I am glad you find yourself so comfortable,
Colonel.”

Again Justin bowed gravely.

“So Grant is to have the command of the Army of the Potomac!” said
Monck, suddenly.

“I have heard nothing to that effect, Major Monck,” replied Justin,
coldly.

“That’s strange! And we knew all about it.”

Justin made no reply.

“And General W. is in the Valley again?” said the guerilla,
interrogatively.

“Major Monck, you must be aware that I cannot converse with you upon
military affairs,” said Justin.

“Humph! not even upon subjects the details of which are as familiar to
us as they are to your cabinet at Washington, or to your general
officers in council! Bless you, man, we have our friends in your
cabinet, in your Congress, in your councils—and even in your very
detective police force! Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho! Why, man, _we_ know the
contents of the sealed orders with which your ships of war sail, long
before the commanders who hold them have broken them open! We knew where
Banks was going, though all the loyal people of the United States, and
all the naval and military officers, were in a frenzy of curiosity and
wonder as to the meaning of the expedition!”

“I know nothing of your means of information, Major Monck; but I _do_
know that I cannot converse with you on the subject.”

“Quite right! I beg your pardon! Let us talk of something else. My poor
fellows up there in your Old Capitol Prison at Washington! How do you
treat them? give them enough to eat and drink?”

“Assuredly we do, sir. However little I may know, by experience, of our
military prison discipline, I am quite certain that our prisoners are
well fed, well clothed, and well sheltered,” said Justin, gravely.

“That is as it should be, especially as to the feeding. I shouldn’t mind
so much your hanging one of our men now and then when you can find
hanging matter against him; because hanging is short work, and soon
over; and I do the like myself occasionally; but I do abhor the idea of
your starving the poor fellows! Being a good feeder myself, I feel pity
for a famishing man. And so long as I have food for myself and men I
divide it fairly with my prisoners. I never, under any circumstances,
stint my prisoner; though sometimes, in the way of retaliation for some
poor devil of a bushwhacker that you have strung up to a roadside tree,
and to give my boys something to look at, and keep them in a good humor,
I have to hang a Yankee!—Colonel, you smoke? Try one of those cigars;
you will find them excellent. Yonder Scotch sutler is a good judge of
tobacco and whiskey. I never met with better Habanas or better old
Mononghahela than what we took from his wagon. Again I say it was a
capital stroke of good fortune, the falling upon that sutler. Try one of
these cigars, Colonel.”

“Thanks—no. I seldom smoke in the morning,” answered Justin, coldly.

“Here, Pearson, bring that parcel of newspapers that we took from the
sutler’s wagon,” called Monck.

A soldier advanced from a remote part of the room, bringing in his arms
a large bundle of papers, which he laid upon the table.

“Colonel Rosenthal, here are Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore
and Washington papers. None of them are over two days old, and therefore
as likely to be new to you as they were to me. Pray take them, and amuse
yourself while I try to study out this cursed course on the map. You
will remain here and dine with me to-day. And you will make yourself at
home in the house, and within the limits of the camp consider yourself
at liberty.”

Justin bowed, took up the parcel of papers, and withdrew to an
unoccupied window seat to look over them.

And Monck resumed the study of his map, probably trying to make out the
shortest and safest route to the rendezvous at the Black Bear’s Pass.

So several hours went by quietly enough.

Monck remained seated at the table, tracing lines on his map and making
memoranda on his paper, or receiving reports and giving instructions to
the officers and men who were continually coming and going.

Colonel Rosenthal remained in the window seat, occupied with his
newspapers.

At length, about four o’clock in the afternoon, Monck impatiently arose
from the table, and sweeping his maps and papers into a heap, exclaimed:

“Put all these things out of my sight. The more I puzzle myself over
them, the more I addle my brains. And tell them to serve dinner
immediately. I want it.”

Two of the men came forward and cleared the table, sweeping the things
that were on top of it into a drawer below it. And then they went out to
attend to the dinner.

Monck stretched his huge limbs, yawned like a clap of thunder, and began
to walk heavily up and down the old floor, shaking the ricketty house as
with the tread of an elephant.

Meanwhile his attendant soldiers came in and arranged the table for
dinner, by spreading over it a white cloth, and placing upon it a
miscellaneous assortment of cracked crockery ware and nicked cutlery.

Then they brought in the dishes—a boiled ham, a roast turkey, and
vegetables, which, with a bottle of pale brandy and another of old rye
whiskey, they sat upon the dinner table, after which they arranged a
second course of pastries and jellies, and a dessert of fruits, nuts,
and light wines on a side-table.

“Heaven bless the Scotch sutler!” exclaimed Monck, as he saw all these
luxuries. “Come, Colonel, draw up to the table and help me to enjoy the
good victuals set before us. Forget that we are foes, and let us be good
fellows for once! What is that the Russian poet says?

               ‘When at the board let hate forget
                 The bitterest words of yesterday,
               For where the bread and salt have met
                 All thoughts of hate should pass away.’

Come! do not let us be worse Christians than the Cossack! Sit up, sit
up!” said Monck, placing a chair for himself and one for Colonel
Rosenthal at the table.

Thus pressed, Justin laid aside his newspapers and came and seated
himself at the board.

An orderly waited on the two officers.

Monck carved the turkey, and requested Colonel Rosenthal to cut the ham.

The orderly handed the plates, and the dinner commenced.

Monck, the guerrilla, is said never to have appeared to greater
advantage than when seated at the head of his own table. He was really,
as he had proclaimed himself to be, a good feeder. He was also a good
drinker, and he enjoyed eating and drinking excessively, especially in
the company of an agreeable companion, such as he was disposed to
consider his prisoner.

Monck was obstinate and stolid, and disposed to enjoy himself; so he
either would not, or could not, perceive that Colonel Rosenthal shared
his society under protest, or had done so, rather; for now the Russian’s
rhyme was running in Justin’s head, and somewhat modifying his feelings:

               “Where the bread and salt are met
                 All thoughts of hate should pass away.”

The dinner was very protracted. The major, and of course his prisoner
guest, lingered long over the first course, longer still over the
second, and longest over the third; so that it was after six o’clock,
and growing dark, when Monck called out to his attendants:

“Clear the table now; and bring us lights, and more brandy, and pipes,
and tobacco. We’ll make a night of it!——And here! throw some more logs
on to the fire. Let us have a roaring blaze!”

Monck’s orders were promptly obeyed. The table was cleared of the
_debris_ of the dessert, and pipes, tobacco, cigars, brandy and whiskey
set upon it; and two candles stuck into black bottles, were placed
beside them. Lastly, four or five huge pine logs were thrown upon the
fire, which now burst into a broad flame, illumining the whole room with
a cheerful light.

Colonel Rosenthal, seeing these preparations for “making a night of it,”
arose from his chair to leave the table.

But Monck, with friendly earnestness, laid his sledgehammer hand upon
the prisoner guest’s shoulder and forced him back into his seat, saying
cordially:

“No, no, no! Don’t often get a boon companion, and can’t let you go! You
needn’t drink, since you don’t like it! but you have no German blood in
you, as your name would indicate, if you don’t like a good smoke! Sit
down and try some of these cigars.”

Thus pressed, Colonel Rosenthal resumed his seat.

An hour went by, during which the blazing wood-fire roared and crackled
in the chimney, lighting up the whole room in which Monck and his
prisoner sat at table—Monck smoking and drinking, his prisoner smoking
and thinking.

Occasionally, as through the day, officers and men came to make reports
and receive instructions and went away to execute orders. These were the
only interruptions, and they were very brief ones. And at length these
also ceased. The tattoo was beat, the guards set, and the camp subsided
to repose, and the guerrilla chief and his guest were left in peace.

But not for any long time. Another hour was passing slowly by, when the
stillness was broken by an unusual noise without.

Monck took the pipe from his mouth, and turned his head to listen.

The noise increased and became uproarious. A great clatter of horses’
hoofs, as from a large body of cavalry dashing into the camp, mingled
with loud cries, oaths and curses, and a confusion of strange sounds,
filled the air, and nearly deafened and bewildered those who tried to
listen and understand.

“I’m blasted if I don’t think the Yankees have surprised the camp!”
exclaimed Monck, starting to his feet to run out.

At the door he paused and turned suddenly to Justin, and saying:

“Remember your parole and stay where you are.” And then he rushed
through the door, banging it after him.

Left to himself, Justin listened anxiously to the sounds without. Had
the Union cavalry gained clue to Monck’s retreat and surprised his camp?
He earnestly hoped that it might be so, and he closed his eyes and
strained his ears to hear. And the noise continued in all its chaos and
sounds, but it told him nothing definitely. And no one came into the
room of whom he might make inquiries, for in the excitement of the hour
every man was on the scene of action outside. And he himself was bound
by his parole to remain where he was.

As he listened in keen anxiety and heavy suspense, he thought that the
noise without was certainly not that of an engagement. There was no
firing of shots, no ringing of steel, no sound of battle whatever. Only
the prancing of horses and the yelling of men. Certainly if the
confusion was caused by the onslaught of the Union cavalry, the
guerrillas must have yielded without a blow. And that was scarcely a
supposable case either with men of their fierce nature and reckless
courage.

Still as he listened the noise began to subside; the horses ceased to
prance, the men to yell. And then it occurred to Justin that all this
excitement might have been kindled by the return of Monck’s own foragers
from their late raid. Nothing more likely, he decided.

At length, when perhaps half an hour had passed, and quiet seemed to
have been restored without, Major Monck re-entered the room, and resumed
his seat at the table.

“May one inquire what all the noise was about?” questioned Justin.

“Oh, nothing in particular—nothing unusual—fortune of war,” answered
Monck, evasively. Then raising his voice, he bawled out, “Here, Hoskins,
bring two fresh candles. These are burning so low that they are about to
slip down into the bottles.”

The man called Hoskins came in, bringing the required articles, and with
the increase of light, Justin saw that a great change had passed over
his host. The face of the guerrilla chief, always white and heavy, was
now stern and set with some grim purpose.

“Throw more logs on the fire, Hoskins. It is nearly out,” he said, as he
drummed thoughtfully on the table with his fat fingers.

Hoskins obeyed the order given him, and once more the fire blazed up.

“Now bring more brandy. Some of that Dry London Dock and Otard, mind
you; and more cigars, some of the best,” he added.

The man sat two bottles and one parcel on the table, and then waited
farther directions.

“You may go, now,” said Monck. And Hoskins left the room.

Justin looked at his host and wondered what had happened, and surmised
that the foraging party must have come to bitter grief, so to have
changed the aspect of this unimpressible man.

“I am sure that something unpleasant has occurred to you, Major,” said
Justin.

“Oh, no, no—nothing at all but what we are used to,” replied Monck, who
was in the act of drawing the cork from one of the brandy bottles. When
he had done so, he poured out a large glass of brandy and pushed it
towards his guest, and said:

“You have drank nothing, neither wine nor liquor, to-day. Oblige me by
trying this fine old Otard.”

“Thanks, no. I would rather not,” answered Justin.

“Are you a member of the Total Abstinence Society, then?”

“Oh, no! I take a little brandy now and then, when I really need it,”
replied Justin.

“You need it now, or you will need it before many minutes are over your
head. I beg that you will drink,” insisted Monck without a smile on his
face.

“Oh, well, if you make so strong a point of it. I am under no pledge,”
replied Justin, laughing again as he raised the glass to his lips.

“That is right. It will brace you up,” said Monck And with that he
filled a large tumbler with brandy for himself and tossed it off, and
then another and another, until the bottle was empty.

The quantity of brandy that would have intoxicated almost any other man
only steadied him. To use a common phrase, he was himself again—the same
cold, cruel, sensual monster, who could order a poor wretch hung up by
the neck to a tree before his tent; and have the door left open, so that
while eating his breakfast he might enjoy the dying agonies of the
victim. In a word, he was the same man that he was reported, but that
Justin had never really believed him to be.

“Take a cigar, Colonel. I see that Hoskins has brought us a really good
lot. Bless that Scotch sutler! Try this one. The sedative effects of
good tobacco upon a man’s nerves is really incomparable,” said Monck,
handing what he considered a choice cigar to Colonel Rosenthal, and then
selecting and lighting one for himself.

They puffed away in silence for awhile, and then Monck removing his
“weed” to knock the ashes off, looked intently upon the face of his
companion and inquired:

“How do you feel, Colonel Rosenthal?”

“Quite well, thank you,” answered Justin, raising his eyebrows in
surprise.

“That’s right! Pretty strongly braced up, eh?”

“Quite so!”

“Glad to know it. Able to bear a pretty severe shock?”

“I do not know. What do you mean?” exclaimed Justin, uneasily.

“Because I shall have to give you a devil of a shock presently.”

“In the name of Heaven what has happened? Have you any ill news of my
friends?” anxiously inquired Colonel Rosenthal.

“No,” said Monck, coolly replacing the cigar in his mouth and drawing
the end of it into a bright coal. “No; no ill news _of_ your friends!
ill news _for_ your friends, however?”

“What do you mean, Major Monck?”

“Colonel Rosenthal, you are a brave man?” said Monck,
semi-interrogatively.

“My friends think so.”

“And your foes _know_ so.”

Justin bowed his head in acknowledgment of this compliment.

“Well, Colonel Rosenthal, _as_ a brave man, you have no fear of death,”
said Monck, coolly throwing away his stump of cigar and lighting
another.

“At least I have faced it often enough,” replied Justin.

“And faced it fearlessly, no doubt.”

“I trust so. But really I do not know to what this talk is tending.”

“No, you really do not seem to know. And that is the worst of it. This
breaking of bad news is a very difficult matter, especially when the
hearer does not help the speaker by jumping half way to the conclusion.
But to return to our mutton—our _dead_ mutton! So you have faced death,
and faced it fearlessly; death in the field, and death in the hospital;
death sharp and sudden as a sabre stroke, and death slow and painful as
the gnawing of the worm that never dies!”

“I have looked upon death in all these aspects,” answered Colonel
Rosenthal, gravely.

“And he has no terrors for you—

                  ‘For come he slow or come he fast,
                  He is but death that comes at last,’

I suppose you think, eh, Colonel Rosenthal?”

“I have said so. But I would be glad to know why you press these
questions upon me.”

“Now, do you see, I don’t think you would be glad to know? ‘Ignorance is
bliss,’ my dear fellow, most especially in your case. Take some more
brandy.”

“No, thanks; no more for me. Tell me to what all this talk tends, Major
Monck.”

“‘Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, till you approve the
deed,’ I _might_ say, only I can’t, because, you see, the ‘deed’ can’t
be done without your knowledge, and, when it is done, you will be very
far past ‘approving’ it!—Really, this Old London Dock is very much finer
than the Otard. Let me persuade you to try it.”

“No! Tell me what you mean by this strange discourse.”

“Well, if you insist upon it, I will. Besides, it is really time to tell
you. But light your cigar first. We can smoke while we talk. Well, then,
I mean that I shall have to hang you in about an hour from this.”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                              THE WHISPER.

               He speaketh low, he speaketh calm,
                 “Ride fast, my master, ride,
               Or e’er within the broadening dark
                 The narrow shadows hide,
               Ere night I shall be near to thee—
                 Now ride, my master, ride—
               Ere night, as parted spirits cleave
               To mortals too beloved to leave,
                 I shall be by thy side!”—E. B. BROWNING.


“Yes, Colonel Rosenthal, I shall have to hang you in about an hour from
this.”

Having pronounced this dreadful sentence in the coolest manner, Monck
tossed off his tumbler of brandy, and then looked up to see what effect
the words had had upon his intended victim.

Colonel Rosenthal’s countenance was not changed in the slightest degree.
He was still sitting back in his chair, contemplating Monck with that
expression of mingled curiosity and perplexity with which he had
hitherto listened to the guerrilla chieftain’s strange discourse.

It was now Monck’s turn to stare with astonishment at his prisoner.

“Well, I’m dashed! if ever I saw a fellow receive a sentence of death so
coolly in all my life! Thunder, man, did you hear what I said to you? I
have just told you that I shall have to hang you in about an hour!”
exclaimed the chieftain.

“I heard you, Major Monck,” coldly and haughtily replied the captive.

“You did, eh? Well, upon my word, you take things coolly for a young
one. What do you think of it? What have you got to say?”

“Certainly I cannot think you speak seriously, Major Monck, and I must
say that your jest is a very coarse and brutal one, not even to be
excused upon the plea of intoxication,” said Colonel Rosenthal, in
strong disgust.

“I’m blasted if I ever was more serious or more sober in my life! It’s a
very serious and sober business, let me tell you, and a blamed
disagreeable one into the bargain especially at night, when the rites
have to be solemnized by torchlight. We _might_ wait until the moon
rises, only we shall be obliged to get away from here under cover of the
darkness, and we must execute you before we move. A devil of a bore! I
had no idea, when I invited you to dine with me, that I should have to
finish up the evening’s entertainment by hanging you. But you see how it
is. Fortune of war. Fortune of war.”

“Major Monck, I must request you, if you please, to desist from this
brutal style of jesting, which is certainly as degrading to you as it is
insulting to me,” said Colonel Rosenthal with calm dignity.

“Jesting, _jesting_, say you! Dashed if I ever felt less like jesting in
my life! blazes, man, don’t you see that I’m in blood earnest? But come,
light another cigar. Here’s a good one; try it—do. We have plenty of
time; let’s see,” said Monck, pushing a fine cigar towards his prisoner,
and taking out his watch to consult it—“Oh, yes, plenty of time to smoke
another cigar apiece. Let us make ourselves comfortable. It is now only
five minutes past eight, and we needn’t hang you until nine; that will
give us an hour to finish up your job neatly, and then get away under
cover of the darkness, before the moon rises at ten. Come, light your
weed, and let’s enjoy each other’s company while we can.”

“Major Monck, if you will persist in this offensive style of joke, I, as
a prisoner, have no power to prevent you. So pray proceed until you
become tired. And don’t on any account cease for my sake, as I shall not
give myself the trouble to listen to you,” said Justin, drawing a paper
from his pocket and beginning to read.

“Joke! Heaven and earth, man! can’t you see that this is no joke! Here
you are within—” Monck again referred to his watch and then
continued—“within fifty minutes of your execution, and you persist in
calling it a joke!”

Justin Rosenthal was assuredly a brave man. He had frequently faced
death fearlessly even in its most fearful forms. But now, as a
conviction of Monck’s real meaning forced itself upon his soul, he
shuddered in spite of himself and grew a shade paler.

“Major Monck,” he said, gravely, “you will not dare to carry out your
design! You will not dare to commit this cold-blooded murder!”

“I should like to know what it is that I would not dare to do! But this
is no cold-blooded murder, Colonel Rosenthal. For reasons that appear
good to me I condemn a prisoner to death and order his execution. A
dashed disagreeable duty, as I said before—especially when it has to be
done upon a man one has been dining with. I had no thought of winding up
our social evening in this way. But you heard the row outside?”

“I heard it,” curtly replied Justin.

“Well, it was about you.”

“Me!”

“Yes. You see a party of my poor fellows went out yesterday to intercept
some Yankee commissary stores that were on their way across the valley.
But my poor boys were themselves intercepted by a squadron of Yankee
cavalry that came from W. to look after them. There was an engagement,
and my men were routed with considerable loss. Some were taken
prisoners; and some were hung up to the roadside trees to dry in the
sun. Those who escaped by flight rushed into the camp in great haste and
disorder this evening.”

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Justin.

“Exactly; but you see this thing works two ways. For instance, when they
learned we had a Yankee colonel here as a prisoner—you heard the row
they raised?—they called for your life in retaliation of their murdered
comrades. I could not in common justice refuse them so reasonable a
request. And so, Colonel Rosenthal,” said Monck, once more coolly
consulting his watch, “as it is now half-past eight o’clock, you have
‘just thirty minutes to live.’”

“Oh, Heaven!” groaned Justin, dropping his head upon his hands and
thinking of his young sister in her desolate orphanage, and of another
still dearer than that sister, and realizing how the news of his
dreadful doom would break those loving hearts.

“Come, come, man alive!” exclaimed Monck, heartily, “don’t be cast down
because you are going to be strung up! Fortune of war, you know; and it
may be my fate to-morrow if I fall into the hands of the clock peddlers!
Come, drink your brandy—it will set you up. And here: take something
substantial with it,” he added, rising from his place and going to the
side-table to bring a plate of biscuits.

At that moment Justin felt a light hand laid upon his head. He looked up
and saw Wing standing beside him. The boy was deadly pale, but perfectly
calm.

“Listen, my Colonel,” he whispered: “there is one chance left to you for
life. You know that we have heard of Monck,—how he——”

The remainder of the sentence was breathed into the ear of Justin
Rosenthal, whose countenance immediately cleared up.

“You have saved me again, Wing! But you—you, my boy?” he exclaimed, in a
low tone.

“Oh, leave me to myself and to God! I shall be safe—I am always safe!
Oh, believe it! believe it when I swear it to you. Hush! that monster is
coming back!” said Wing, retreating to the door.

In fact, at that moment Monck did return, bringing in one hand a plate
of biscuits, and in the other a plate of cheese, which he set before his
prisoner, saying:

“Come! ‘let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die;’ or,
rather, to-night, at least, you do!”

“All right!” exclaimed Justin, laughing. “A soldier must be ready to
meet death at any moment and in any manner. Your health, Major Monck!”
he added, pouring a little brandy into his glass.

“That’s your sort! That’s the way I like to see a man meet the King of
Terrors! Come—I will pledge you in this glass, and then I suppose we
must go out and begin the ceremonies. Thunder! how time flies! It is
actually a quarter to nine. We must make haste,” said Monck, filling his
glass and approaching to touch the glass that Justin held towards him.

As the glasses clinked, the eyes of the two men met, and Justin, with a
peculiar gesture, too slight to be noticed by an ordinary observer,
raised his to his lips, and then set it down.

The glass of Monck nearly fell from his hand. He stared steadily at his
prisoner for a full minute and then demanded:

“What was that for? Was that an accident or not?”

“What, an accident?” inquired Justin, innocently.

“_That—that!_ Are you—But nonsense! I suppose it _was_ an accident.
Come, Colonel Rosenthal! ten minutes to nine, and we have got to go out.
Come! it will be all over in a few minutes. What I do is not done in
malice, and I hope you will bear no malice towards me,” said Monck,
rising from the table.

“None whatever. In pledge of which, before we leave the board, let us
shake hands,” said Justin, rising, and offering his hand to the
guerrilla.

“Quite right!” exclaimed Monck, heartily, clapping his fat hand into the
extended palm of Justin, who gave it a peculiar grip and shake.

Suddenly Monck sank down into his seat as if he had been shot.

“Then it _wasn’t_ an accident!” he exclaimed, staring at his intended
victim.

“No.”

“And you are—”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m dashed if I can hang you! And a devil of a dilemma it places
me in!” muttered the guerrilla chieftain, placing his great hands upon
his knees, and dropping his head upon his breast in deep thought.

Justin resumed his seat, and sat as calmly as if he had been at his own
table, for he felt that he was now as safe as if he had been in his own
camp.

“And time is flying! And presently some of the men who were charged with
the preparations for the execution will be at the door, to tell me that
all is ready, and to ask for the prisoner! And in their present state of
excitement, the rascals—the mutinous rascals—would take you out and hang
you whether I like it or don’t like it; a devil of a dilemma! I had
better get you off from here as quietly as possible—eh, Colonel
Rosenthal?”

“As you like. It is your affair,” said Justin, coolly.

Monck scratched his head, repeating at intervals:

“A devil of a dilemma!”

Then he got up and went to the door and spoke to the sentinel on duty
there, saying:

“Rushley, pass the word for Captain Bannister to come here.”

Then he began to walk uneasily up and down the floor.

In a very few minutes Captain Bannister came in, wearing a grave and
anxious expression of countenance.

Monck met him near the door, drew his arm within his own, and walked him
off towards one of windows; but not until Justin had heard Bannister
say, in a low voice:

“Nothing has occurred since my connection with this band that has so
seriously distressed me as the doom of this gentleman. Major Monck, if
it be possible, save him! His execution would cover us with obloquy.”

“That is just what I sent for you to consult about,” answered Monck, as
they both passed, arm in arm, out of Justin’s hearing.

They stood within the recess of the window, conversing in a low tone,
for some ten or fifteen minutes, at the end of which Monck nodded his
head and approached the table. He took writing materials from the
drawer, sat down and hastily scratched off a few lines on a slip of
paper, which he handed to Captain Bannister, saying:

“You will leave this room by the back door, which will take you into the
back yard. Go then through the garden and orchard, and around by the old
field, and so make a circuit to the ferry. In that way you will escape
showing your prisoner to the disaffected men who have come in from that
luckless expedition. As for the other men, it does not matter, as they
are not nearly so blood-thirsty! The devil is in it that I should have
to pass a prisoner out of camp in this surreptitious way. No matter.
Wait until we join our forces with that of Goldsborough and the Free
Sword, and we will see whether better discipline cannot be maintained
among these wild colts.”

Captain Bannister received the written paper with a bow and then turned
towards Justin.

“Colonel Rosenthal,” said Monck, “I place you in the hands of Captain
Bannister, who will see you safely beyond our lines.”

Justin bowed grimly, and then inquired:

“My two orderlies?”

“Their lives will be safe. We don’t hang children! We shall hold them
prisoners until they are exchanged. And now, for Heaven’s sake, be off
with yourself, and leave me to settle with those howling furies
outside.”

Thus urged, Justin followed Captain Bannister, who conducted him through
the back door into a back yard, where they mounted two horses that stood
ready saddled and bridled; and thence they rode through the garden and
the orchard, and round where the edge of the woods skirted the old
field, and by that covered path to the ferry, where they were challenged
by the sentinel on duty.

Bannister gave the countersign, and passed with his companion.

The old ferryman came out of his house at the captain’s summons, and got
his boat ready. And in a few minutes Justin was safely landed on the
other side of the river. His guard, however, did not leave him until
they had passed all the pickets, and reached the extreme outposts of the
guerrillas’ encampment.

Then Captain Bannister took from his pocket the paper that Monck had
given him, and handed it to Justin, saying:

“In case you should meet with any scouts of our band, you have only to
show them this paper, and you will pass unmolested.”

Justin took the paper with a bow, and then thanked Captain Bannister for
all his courtesy.

“You will follow this path through the wood until you reach the turnpike
road leading to W.—the same road upon which our men first surprised
you,” said Captain Bannister.

“Thanks! All right. I shall find the way,” answered Justin.

And the two men parted—Captain Bannister returning towards the camp and
Colonel Rosenthal proceeding on his way.

It was the same dark and narrow path, through the thick, impenetrable
forest, that he had travelled as a prisoner on the night previous. And
his progress was of course as slow and difficult now as it had been
then.

His soul was troubled, too, for the boys he had left behind. He was
somewhat comforted by the assurance of Monck that their lives should be
safe, and he was cheered by the recollection of Wing’s words; but still
he was most anxious to get on to W., that he might at once see to the
exchange of the prisoners.

Two hours of slow riding brought him to the high road, upon which he
emerged just as the moon was rising, and flooding all the valley with
light.

Here, where there was no obstruction, he put spurs to his horse, and
flew along at a furious rate of speed for several miles, when suddenly
his horse fell lame.

He dismounted, and examined the creature’s feet, hoping that he should
find a pebble, or some transient irritation of that sort, the removal of
which should restore the horse to the free use of his limbs. But he
found nothing, and was at length forced to give up the search in the
belief that the cause of lameness was something more serious and
permanent than he had supposed. Justin was as merciful as he was
courageous. He did not mount again; but, taking the bridle in his hand,
walked on, leading the steed after him.

In this manner he had progressed slowly over another mile of the road,
when he suddenly heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs behind, and the next
moment Wing rode up, and drew rein beside him.

“Wing!” he joyfully exclaimed.

“Yes, my Colonel, Wing. I am like the bad penny, always coming back to
you,” said the lad gayly, as he dismounted, and leading his horse,
walked by his colonel’s side.

“Oh, my dear boy! I am so delighted to see you safe! But how does it
happen that you are here?”

“My Colonel, it is easily explained. After I had given you that hint—”

—“Ah, yes—that hint, my boy! It saved my life. And that is the third
time you have come between me and certain death, my child,” said Justin,
earnestly.

“I was going to say that after I left the room, the guards, obeying
orders that had been given them, no doubt, took me up into a back attic
and locked me in.”

“Humph!”

“It was a place of utter darkness, and at first I could not see my hand
before me. But gradually as my eyes became accustomed to the scene, I
made out the form of a dormer window. While I was straining my eyes
towards that square of thinner darkness, for it was no more, I heard a
scraping and scratching on the outside of the window.”

“Well?”

“I went to see what it meant. I found that the noise proceeded from the
branch of a tall elm tree that was blown by the wind across the window.
Then a means of escape suggested itself to me. I tried the window and
found that I could hoist it. Then I peered out and perceived that with a
little dexterity I might seize the branch of the elm and swing myself
into the body of the tree, from whence I could easily get down to the
ground.”

“A dangerous experiment.”

“But I had no other alternative, than to try it. I turned back into the
room and felt my way along the wall until I came to the door. I felt up
and down the door to find whether there was any fastening by which I
could secure it on the inside. I found a strong iron bolt. And I
immediately bolted it, so that if any one should come, they should not
at once discover my flight.”

“Your old precaution, Wing.”

“Yes, sir. Then I went to the window, got out upon the sill, seized the
branches of the elm and swung myself into the body of the tree, from
which I climbed down to the ground. The back part of the encampment is
not strongly guarded, you know. By creeping and crawling through the
bushes and keeping in the deep shadows, I reached at last a path
skirting the wood. I came along under the shadow of the wood until I
heard a horseman galloping towards me. Then I took out the little
revolver that I had carried safely in my bosom through all my
adventures, and I cocked it to have it in readiness.”

“Ah!”

“The horseman came on, saw me and ordered me to halt. I replied with my
revolver. And he dropped from his saddle. I went up and seized the horse
by the bridle while I disengaged the foot of the rider from the stirrup.
Then, still holding the horse by the bridle with one hand, I rifled the
pockets of the rider with the other. I took from them nothing but a box
of wax matches and a written paper which I found contained the
countersign. Then I mounted the horse and rode down to the ferry, gave
the countersign to the sleepy sentinel and to the tipsy ferryman, and
was put across the river without difficulty. I made the best of my way
through the forest, giving the countersign wherever challenged, until I
passed beyond Monck’s lines and reached the high road. And here I am.”

“Wing, I have heard of a charmed life, but you seem to possess a charmed
liberty. There is no such thing as keeping you a prisoner. But this
rider whom you shot from his horse. Do you know who he was, my boy?”
inquired Justin, uneasily.

“Yes, sir. Captain Bannister.”

“Oh, Wing, what a fatal necessity! I am so sorry! He was a gallant
fellow, if he was a guerrilla. And he was returning from seeing me safe
through the lines!”

“I am sorry too, sir, but it couldn’t be helped. And if the thing was to
be done over again, I should have to do it over again,” said Wing with a
sigh.

“Where is your comrade? Where is Hay?” inquired Colonel Rosenthal.

“I do not know, sir. I have not seen him since we ate our supper
together this evening, but I presume he is still in the guerrilla camp.
But what is the matter with your horse, sir?”

“He has fallen lame, Wing.”

“A pebble in his shoe, perhaps?”

“No; I have examined carefully; there is nothing of the kind.”

“Will you let me look, sir?”

“Certainly, if you like,” said the colonel, taking the bridles of both
horses in his hands so as to leave Wing at liberty to make the
examination he wished.

“See here, sir. It was not a pebble, but it was something worse,” said
the boy, drawing a thorn from the horse’s foot, and holding it up to
view.

“Now, then, why couldn’t I have seen that?” exclaimed Justin, in some
surprise and impatience.

“Because it was not easy to be seen, sir. I did not see it. I felt it
with the ends of my fingers.”

“You have a very delicate touch, Wing—as delicate as a woman’s.”

“I think you can mount your horse now, sir. I think he will go without
trouble,” said the boy.

And Colonel Rosenthal got into his saddle and rode on towards W.,
followed by his favorite orderly.

Day was breaking when they rode into the town.

They went immediately to the head quarters of General W., to whom
Colonel Rosenthal reported.

Active preparations were set on foot in W. for an expedition against the
guerrilla bands who were now ascertained to have joined forces at the
Black Bear’s Pass, from which point they were preparing to make a
descent upon Maryland.

And now it is time to return to Elfie, and see how she fares with her
wild lover.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                           THE MOUNTAIN CAMP.

           Now, my co-mates and brothers in this cause,
           Hath not our custom made this life more sweet
           Than that of city pomp? Are not these rocks
           More free from peril than the envious town?
           Here we but feel the penalty of Adam—
           The seasons’ difference, as the frosty fancy
           And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind;
           Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
           Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say—
           This is no flattery; these are counsellors
           That feelingly persuade me what I am.—SHAKSPEARE.


While Vittorio and Alberta talked together outside the door, Elfie
entered the leafy hut and threw herself down upon the fragrant pallet
that had been spread for her accommodation.

Her shelter was like a fairy bower. Wherever she stretched her hands out
towards the walls, or the floor, or the ceiling, she found leaves. Yet
the hut was not so compactly built as to prevent the moonbeams from
shining in between the loosely woven pine boughs; so the place was
dappled over with spots of moonlight; and filled with the fragrance of
pine blooms; and cheered with the chirp of insects that sung from every
twig.

Elfie lay and rested well, luxuriously; but she could not sleep. Outside
they were beating the tattoo, and the guerrillas were putting away their
horses or hurrying to their quarters; and the rolling of the drums, the
prancing of the steeds, and the tramping of the men would have kept
Elfie awake, even if her own troubled thoughts had not banished sleep
from her eyes.

“It is just what that wretch said!” thought Elfie—“it is just as if I
had lost my footing on the nineteenth century and slipped down into the
tenth, and lighted in Epping Forest, in the days of bold Robin Hood and
his merry men. What a place for a civilized and Christian girl to find
herself in!—the lair of outlaws; for I really do suppose the guerrillas
are no better! Not that the life would be so bad either if it were not
for the cause—‘the CAUSE, my soul!’ No bed was ever softer or more
elastic than this pallet spread upon the leaves; no air was ever so
sweet as this that comes laden with the fragrance of the mountain
forest; and no serenade was ever so soothing as the small sing-song of
these little minstrels of the bark. If this were only a Union camp, and
Albert were a patriot, how happy I would be! If—if——”

And here Elfie, pierced to the soul by the poignant thought of what
“_might have been_,” began to weep.

“Good night, dearest, good night! Remember if you needs must go upon
this expedition, _I go with you_. At noon-day or at midnight, it matters
not to me; I shall be ready. No toils, no perils, no privations shall
dismay me, Vittorio! I dread but one evil in this world: separation from
you; and that evil you have promised that I shall never suffer.
Remember, dearest, remember!”

These were the words addressed to the Free Sword by his devoted wife
before she left him, raised the curtain, and entered the hut.

She found Elfie still sobbing. She went and knelt down by the pallet,
and gently inquired:

“Why, Elfie—Elfie, dear! what is the matter? Why should _you_ weep? Why
should _any_ one weep whose best beloved is not in deadly peril as mine
is? Speak to me, Elfie! Tell me why you weep so much.”

“It is abou—out that wretch Go—oldsborough!” sobbed Elfie. “Not because
he has brought me off by force. I am not thinking of that now; for if he
had been true to his country, he needn’t have brought me off by strength
of arm. I would have accompanied him willingly anywhere—anywhere over
the earth: into the camp—into the wilderness—into the battle! For _you_
know, Alberta, that we women who scream at the sight of a black beetle,
can nevertheless face a battery by the side of one we love! And if he
had been loyal—oh! if he had been loyal, I should have loved him so
well!—I should have honored him so greatly! And if he should have been
fated to come out of the war with the loss of both his arms and both his
legs, I should still have married him. Yes—and a thousand times yes! I
would all the sooner have married him that I might be hands and feet to
him forever. But he has lost his HONOR, Alberta. And oh! you do not know
it, perhaps—you cannot understand, it may be; but his treason—his
treason was the heaviest blow that ever fell upon me, and to-night it
weighs heavy as lead upon my heart. Oh! if he had been true—oh! if he
had been true!”

“Elfie,” said Alberta, gently and soothingly, “by this vehement outburst
of sorrow, I perceive that you love Albert still.”

“I do not! I love no traitor!” passionately broke forth the girl.

“Elfie! how _can_ you speak so unjustly and cruelly of your lover!”

“I speak truly of him!”

“Elfie! let me say one word in Albert’s defence!”

“What is it?”

“_He thinks he is right!_”

“Oh, Alberta! how can he think so? How can any man think so.”

“He thinks he is right, as many a gallant leader in the Confederate army
thinks! To _his_ idea of right he has sacrificed all that he possesses
on earth, as many a Southern patriot has done!”

“Alberta! we have talked of this before. We have been over and over the
argument until my heart and soul are both sick of it! And besides, you
may preach all day and yet you will never make me believe that light is
darkness, or that treason is patriotism! Bosh! Who do you think is a
fool?” snapped Elfie, abruptly turning her face away.

“I think every narrow-minded and prejudiced person is a fool, for that
matter, Elfie! I do not wish to convince you of anything in particular,
Elfie! I only wish to engage your charitable construction for those who
happen to differ from you in opinion—and especially for the lover, of
whom it pains you so much to think ill.”

Elfie made no reply, but with her face to the wall, continued to sob.

Alberta tried to soothe her, but in vain, for Elfie was inconsolable.

Nevertheless, the chieftain’s wife sat by the pallet until her guest had
sobbed herself to sleep, and slept like a tired child.

Then the unhappy lady threw herself upon her own bed, and fell into a
fitful slumber.

Elfie slept long and well, and did not awake until the beating of the
reveillé aroused her.

“It is like enchantment,” she said, sitting up on her pallet, and gazing
around on the leafy walls of her hut, through the interstices of which
the first rays of the rising sun pierced redly.

Alberta was already up and dressed. She brought a clean towel and some
water in a broken bowl, and set them before her guest, saying with a
smile:

“You must make the best toilet you can under the circumstances, my dear.
We are not even so well off here as we were at the old mansion house.”

Elfie followed the advice of her hostess as well as she could. And by
the time she had washed her face and arranged her hair and her dress,
Alberta was ready to take her out, where, upon the dried grass before
the hut, a substantial breakfast was spread.

The Free Sword joined them at the meal.

“I am sorry to tell you, Miss Fielding,” he said, with a bow to Elfie,
“that Colonel Goldsborough has left the camp for an absence of several
days.”

Elfie looked up in surprise.

“He has left you in our charge, and I need scarcely say that we will do
all in our power to make you comfortable,” he continued.

“I thank you very much, Colonel Corsoni, for your news. I am very glad
to hear that the kidnapper has taken his departure. And I fervently pray
he may never return,” said Elfie.

Vittorio Corsoni shrugged his shoulders.

“He may never return, indeed, Miss Fielding, for the duty he has
voluntarily assumed is one of great danger as well as of great honor.”

“Oh, no fear for him. He will be back again all too soon and too surely.
It is absolutely wonderful what care Satan takes of his own,” said
Elfie.

Again Vittorio shrugged his shoulders, and the conversation ended. And
soon after the breakfast came to a close, and Corsoni arose and left the
spot.

All that day, men in large numbers continued to arrive at the
rendezvous—some who were returning stragglers, some who had been absent
on leave, and some who were new recruits. All that day there were
company drills in various parts of the camp.

During the afternoon Alberta and Elfie took a ramble through the wild
wood that encircled the camp, but came back to their green hut in time
for the early tea that Abershaw had prepared, and at which the Free
Sword joined them.

And Elfie’s second night on the mountain passed very much as the first
had done.

Several days went by in this manner, and still new men continued to come
and swell the numbers of the band.

But Albert Goldsborough did not return, nor did Monck, whose arrival was
daily expected, make his appearance.

Elfie could perceive that the Free Sword was growing extremely anxious
on the subject of the prolonged absence of the two guerrilla leaders.

Elfie kept a sharp look-out. And on the seventh day of Goldsborough’s
absence, she discovered that Colonel Corsoni sent out scouts on the
perilous duty of looking after the missing men.

On the morning of the eighth day, Elfie was as usual aroused by the
rolling of the reveillé.

She arose and began to arrange her dress, while waiting for Alberta,
whom she did not see, but who, she naturally supposed, had, as usual,
left the hut to procure water for their morning ablutions.

While Elfie was fastening her boddice, she saw the curtain of her
doorway lifted, and a bowl of water and a clean towel pushed into the
hut.

She took them and began to wash her face and hands, still momentarily
expecting the appearance of Alberta, at whose prolonged absence she was
beginning to wonder.

At length, when she was quite ready for breakfast, and a little tired of
waiting for Alberta, she lifted the curtain of her doorway, and passed
out of the hut.

There, to her surprise, she found a breakfast arranged for one, and
Mutchison as waiter, in attendance.

“What is the meaning of this, you monstrous villain? Where is Madame
Corsoni? And how dare you show your face before me?” indignantly
demanded Elfie.

“One question at a time, young lady, if you please. The meaning of this
is your breakfast, with me to serve it. Madame Corsoni has gone with her
husband, who, at the head of all his command, left the camp at midnight.
I show my face to tell you this,” answered Mutchison grimly.

“Alberta gone!” breathlessly exclaimed Elfie.

“Yes; she always goes with her husband. I wish to the Lord I had such a
wife.”

“Heaven and earth! what will become of me?” exclaimed Elfie, in a
greater panic than she had ever yet experienced.

“Matrimony will become of you, my dear young lady. Colonel Goldsborough
arrived here last night, some three hours before the departure of the
Free Sword. He brought the marriage license from the county court house
with him. And he is now making active preparations for the wedding,
which must take place before we march, which we shall do at sharp noon.
Come, young lady. I can imagine that a bride has but little appetite on
the morning of her wedding day. But allow me at least to pour out for
you a cup of coffee.”

“You monster! you miscreant! I would see you and your master both in the
deepest pit of perdition, before I would take anything from you!”
furiously exclaimed Elfie, dashing the cup of coffee from the hand of
Mutchison, and turning and rushing into the hut.

But ah! she had no means of fastening herself within, or keeping any one
else without, that frail shelter. Nothing but a curtain hung between her
and her pursuers.

And that curtain was presently lifted by Albert Goldsborough, who
entered the hut and stood before his beloved.

Elfie whirled around upon him and stood like a stag at bay.

“Wretch! coward! miscreant! shame on you for forcing yourself into my
presence, where I have no means of keeping you out!” she fiercely
exclaimed.

“Elfie! nonsense, my darling! You know that I love you more than life;
and you know that _I_ know you love me; and so——”

But before Albert Goldsborough had got off half of this fine speech,
Elfie, who was resolved not to remain alone with him for a moment, had
bounded past him and through the doorway, to find herself—on the bosom
of Mutchison, who had spread out his arms to intercept her flight. Elfie
immediately drove her nails into his face.

“Catamountains! Here! take her off me, colonel! I wouldn’t so much mind
if she was my own sweetheart; but I’m dashed if I like to be
clapper-clawed by yours! It don’t pay! It’s all thorns and no roses!”
laughed the giant, as he tore Elfie away from his face and held her at
arm’s length towards Goldsborough, who snatched her to his heart and
began to speak to her.

But Elfie stuck her fingers in her ears and screamed until she woke all
the mountain echoes.

Then Albert threw his right arm around her, and brought down her hands
from her ears and held them firmly with his right hand, while with his
left he covered her lips to stop her shrieks, and force her to hear him.

“Elfie,” he said, “you know that I love you more than life. And you know
that _I_ know you love me. And it is right that we should be married;
but right or wrong, I am resolved to marry you to-day. Listen, you mad
girl! Here you are in a guerrilla camp; the only woman in it. You have
no longer Alberta’s protection. And unless you have a husband, what is
to become of your good name? What do you suppose people will say of
you?” he demanded, removing his hand from her lips.

“What do I suppose people will say of me? What do _you_ suppose I care?
Could they say worse of me than that I should be your wife?” fiercely
demanded Elfie, struggling vainly to free herself.

“Yes, Elfie. You know very well that they may say far worse of you than
that, unless I prevent them. But they never shall say it, Elfie. I have
got the marriage license and the wedding ring, and the minister is in my
hut, only waiting my message to come and marry us.”

“No minister will ever marry us against my consent!”

“Elfie, I have said that to the Reverend Mr. Simmons which convinces him
that it is duty to marry us. Come, Mutchison; we have no more time to
lose. Go fetch the parson,” ordered Albert Goldsborough.

The giant started on the errand.

“Ho!” called Goldsborough after him.

Mutchison looked back.

“Don’t let any of the men know what’s up. We don’t want to afford them a
spectacle in camp. See that they are kept at a proper distance from
this.”

“All right, sir,” said the giant, striding on his way.

Albert Goldsborough raised Elfie in his arms and bore her into the hut.

“Mind this!” said Elfie, whose very lips were white with rage, while her
black eyes seemed to scintillate sparks of fire—“mind this, Albert
Goldsborough! If you persist in this purpose, and if you succeed in
carrying it out—_I will kill you!_”

“Perhaps you will, Elfie. You really look as if you would; but I will
risk it,” said Albert, firmly.

Presently Mutchison returned to the hut, and said:

“The parson is coming, sir.”

“Mutchison, come here,” said Albert Goldsborough.

And the giant came to his side.

“Mutchison, there was once a princess of France who was as obstinately
opposed to matrimony as our bride here. Even when this princess stood
with her intended husband before the altar she refused to say ‘Yes’ to
the all important question as to whether she would take that man to be
her wedded husband. So her father went behind her, put his hands upon
her obstinate little head and bent it forward with a nod of assent.”

“And ‘a nod is as good as a wink,’” said Mutchison.

“Certainly—and better, in these instances; for it is a sign of
affirmation and means yes.”

“The parson is at the door, sir,” exclaimed Mutchison, seeing a shadow
move before the curtain.

“Well, let him wait a moment, until I explain your part to you.”

All the time they were speaking Elfie was struggling violently to free
herself. And now again Albert Goldsborough threw his left arm around her
and caught and confined her two hands with his left hand, while with his
right hand he covered her mouth to stifle her screams, that were again
splitting the air.

“Don’t smother her, sir,” said Mutchison.

“I will not. She has fine nostrils, especially when they are inflated
with rage, and I leave them free for breathing purposes. Now then,
Mutchison; I want you to place yourself immediately behind this
obstinate little bride, and when the parson asks her if she will take
this man to be her wedded husband, for better for worse, (and she will
find him much better than she hopes,) I want you to put your hand upon
her obstinate little head and bend it forward with a very emphatic nod
of assent, as the King of France did in the case of his disobedient
daughter. Get yourself into position. And then I will call on the
parson.”

“All right, colonel,” said Mutchison, taking up his stand immediately
behind Elfie, who was only pausing to gather strength for a fresh
resistance.

“Come in, if you please, Mr. Simmons,” called out Goldsborough.

And the parson lifted the curtain, and entered the hut.

He was a tall, thin, light-haired man, very pale, nervous and
consumptive. He was evidently a captive among the guerrillas, and as
evidently frightened half to death.

“Hand him the license, Mutchison. Mutchison is here in the three-fold
capacity of bride’s father, bridegroom’s best man, and witness of the
marriage,” said Goldsborough.

Mutchison stepped forward, and placed the license in the trembling hands
of the minister, and then stepped back, and resumed his position behind
Elfie.

“Now proceed, sir, if you please,” said Goldsborough.

The nervous minister unfolded and examined the license, and then put it
into his pocket, from which he took a small prayer-book.

Opening the book, he commenced the marriage ceremony. And in his extreme
trepidation, he commenced at the wrong end:

“‘_Forasmuch as this man and this woman hath consented_—’”

“I have _not_ consented! I had rather be hanged!” screamed Elfie, who
had succeeded in wriggling her head free from the hand of her captor.

In this panic the parson dropped his book, and fell into an ague fit.

“This wretch has carried me off by force! He is marrying me by force! I
will never—” spluttered Elfie so far; but just here Albert succeeded in
getting his hand over her mouth, and silenced her again.

Mutchison picked up the prayer-book and restored it to its owner.

“Go on!” thundered Goldsborough, with a furious stamp of his foot, that
nearly caused the startled preacher to drop the volume again.

“Young lady, I have no option but to go on. I act under compulsion, as
you do,” said the preacher, beginning again;

“‘Forasmuch as this——’”

“Oh, Mr. Simmons! you look like a good man,” begged Elfie, who had
twisted her head free—“and you may have sisters of your own; for their
sakes——”

But here Albert Goldsborough stopped her mouth again, and roared at the
unfortunate parson to proceed.

“You see, young lady, I have no alternative but to do what I am about to
do. The man threatened to hang me if I refused,” pleaded the minister.

“And the man will keep his word,” added Goldsborough.

“And I have an old mother, and sisters also, as you suggested, depending
on me for support. So I must do the bidding of this man. And besides, my
dear young lady, as you are in the power of these men, it is far better
that you should be lawfully married to their leader. If one of my young
sisters were in your place, unless she could be immediately rescued, I
should thank the first one in authority to lawfully marry her to her
captor.”

“Come, then! Stop this nonsense, and go on! or we will find a way to
quicken your motions!” thundered Goldsborough.

Thus strongly urged, the poor preacher once more opened his book, found
the place, and commenced the marriage ceremony.

The rites proceeded quietly enough, for Elfie’s hands were held too
fast, and her lips were covered too closely, for her to offer any
successful resistance.

When the bridegroom was asked:

“‘_Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?_’”

Goldsborough answered in a loud, firm, sonorous voice:

“‘_I will._’”

When the similar question was put to the bride, Mutchison clapped his
hand upon Elfie’s head and bent it down in assent.

When the minister, proceeding with the ceremony, inquired:

“‘_Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?_’”

Mutchison answered, in a bold voice:

“‘_I do._’”

The ring was then forced upon the bride’s finger, and the marriage
ceremony was concluded in the usual manner.

“And now take notice that I have done this deed under compulsion! I wash
my hands of the sin, and cast it upon the backs of those to whom it
belongs!” said the persecuted preacher, turning to leave the hut.

“Exactly! our backs are broad enough to bear it,” laughed Albert
Goldsborough. Then turning to Mutchison, he said: “Go after him, and
make him a tumbler of milk punch to set him up again. And leave me alone
with my wife, that I may reconcile her to her husband.”




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                               THE MARCH.

                    Come away! come away!
                      Hark to the summons!
                    Come in your war array.
                      Gentiles and commons!
                    Leave untended the herd,
                      The flock without shelter;
                    Leave the corpse uninterred,
                      The bride at the altar.—SCOTT.


It was written of an old usurper of the throne of England, that “having
gained the kingdom by fraud and by cruelty, he nevertheless governed it
in justice and in mercy.”

Something like the same policy prevailed in Colonel Goldsborough’s
conduct towards his captive bride.

Having gained her hand by force, he was willing to win her favor by
forbearance.

No sooner had the curtain dropped behind the retreating form of
Mutchison, than Albert Goldsborough turned towards Elfie, and sank upon
one knee at her feet; and though the action was indeed rather
melo-dramatic, I do not see, under the circumstances, how he could have
done less than thus humble himself.

The insolent abductor was all at once turned into the pleading lover. He
earnestly prayed her to pardon him.

“Elfie, my best beloved—my _only_ beloved, you will try to forgive me
for this violence!” he murmured, in a low and gentle tone.

“If I do, Albert Goldsborough, I pray that Heaven may never forgive
_me_!” she answered, passionately.

“My darling Elfie, Heaven never records our wicked prayers. If it did we
should all be doomed!” he said, gently taking her hand.

“Don’t touch me, you wretch, unless you wish to drive me raving mad. I
tell you I am on the brink of frenzy now! and frenzy may give me
strength to slay you!” she exclaimed, struggling and snatching her hand
from his grasp.

“Elfie, listen to me!” he pleaded.

But Elfie drowned his murmuring voice in a torrent of bitter scorn and
furious invective, which she poured upon him without stint or measure.

He let her scold until she had exhausted herself, and had to pause for
want of breath; then he took advantage of her silence and answered,
gently:

“Elfie, to all your cruel reproaches I have but this to say in my
defence—I love you; I have loved you ever since I first saw you, and I
believe that you love me. In this belief, Elfie, I could not leave you
among the Yankees to be perverted by them, to be set against your own
old State, your faithful friends, and your one true lover, I could not,
my Elfie.”

“You—ou! You—ou!” began Elfie, but she was too much out of breath to
proceed, and so Albert resumed:

“I could not give you up to the Yankees, Elfie. I could not, my dear.
And so, at the imminent risk not only of my own life, but of the lives
of all my command, I crossed the river and brought you away.”

“A great risk you ran, truly, to come with your two hundred armed
guerrillas upon a harmless pleasure party of less than forty persons,”
passionately and scornfully cried Elfie, who had now recovered her
voice.

“Yes, Elfie, it _was_ a great risk—an imminent risk, as I said—for we
crossed and landed between two forts whose scouts were out in search of
us. And in three hours after our crossing, a squadron of cavalry, armed
with their murderous six-shooters, were on our trail. But I would have
risked much more than life for you, my Elfie.”

“‘Risk’ again,” sneered Elfie. “I don’t see it. The only risk that was
run for my sake that day was run by the only man of our party; for I
hold that little Mim was the only male creature that proved himself a
man on that occasion.”

“I wonder, now, if that little atom is my rival?” said Albert, musingly.

“Yes, he _is_!” exclaimed Elfie, spitefully catching at the idea; “he
just _is_! I love and admire little Mim beyond everything. I love his
little finger better than I ever did your whole person. He is a true
hero, and I worship the very ground he walks on!”

“Very pleasant words for me to hear, Elfie.”

“I don’t care whether they are or not. They are true. I am dying in love
with little Mim. And when I get back to Washington, I mean to ask him to
marry me as soon as ever—Oh, my good gracious, I can’t, either!”
exclaimed Elfie, suddenly breaking off and bursting into tears of rage
at the recollection that she was married already to Goldsborough.

“No, you can’t! Polygamy is not lawful in this land, at least not for
ladies,” laughed Albert Goldsborough.

“You will be hanged some day, shortly, and then I shall be a widow,”
sobbed Elfie.

“Come, come, my darling girl, why do you keep up this comedy? Do you
think that I could be jealous of your little champion? Do you think that
I believe for a moment in your professions either of regard for him or
detestation for me? No, dear Elfie. I have a confidence in your love and
faith that your words and actions cannot shake. Listen, my darling
girl—”

“I don’t want to hear a word you have to say, Albert Goldsborough.”

“But, my dear, in common justice you must. Listen, Elfie—for we must
march soon, and the time for explanation and defence is short. I have
told you that, loving you beyond measure, and believing in your
unaltered love for me, I could not leave you among the Yankees. I could
not, Elfie. And so, at the imminent risk of my life, and the lives of
all my band, I crossed the river, and brought you off from between the
very teeth of the enemy.”

“You have bragged of all that before,” sneered Elfie.

“I could not have believed in your persistent opposition to my wishes,
Elfie; else, perhaps, I should have spared you and myself this trial.”

“When you made the discovery, why did you not send me back to my
friends?” demanded Elfie.

“It was too late even if it had been in other respects possible to do
so! Once having run away with you, and above all having retained you for
days in my custody, there was no retreat! The departure of Alberta this
morning, leaving you alone, the only woman in the guerrilla camp, made
your immediate marriage a necessity. And so, Elfie, I have married you,
even by force; but I trust to win your forgiveness by forbearance. The
deed is done, Elfie, that makes you my wife! But now that it is done,
you shall be as sacred to me as my sister. And more so! for I will never
touch your lips, or even take your hand again, without your leave! That
you will forgive me and love me I am sure—sure as that you are woman! We
shall march in an hour, and of course you go with us! I will do
everything I possibly can do for your happiness, except to give you up
to the Yankees, to be taught to hate and despise your old State and old
friends! You are a child of the South and belong to your mother, and
must live among her children.”

Elfie still sobbed, but now, as it seemed, with less of rage then of
grief.

He was still at her feet.

“Get up!” she said at length, impatiently. “You’ve made a brute of
yourself, but you needn’t make a fool of yourself by remaining in that
absurd position, Albert Goldsborough! Get up!”

“Not until I have obtained your forgiveness, Elfie. Oh, Elfie, dearest,
I loved you so entirely. The thought of you was never for an instant
absent from my mind, by day or by night, in the tent or in the field.
Elfie, for the sake of the undivided love I bore you, forgive me; for
the sake of the forbearance that I have sworn to observe towards you,
and that will cost me so much, forgive me!” he pleaded.

“If you will—will keep your word with me, and treat—eat me as your
sister, I will forgive—give you for the past!” sobbed Elfie.

“Heaven bless you for that much, my darling! That is one step gained,”
he said, rising.

“And oh, if you had only been tru—true to your country in her trial! Oh,
if you had only been tru—true to your country!” she wept.

“I _was_ true to my country, Elfie. I _am_ true to my country. I shall
_always_ be true to my country. Old Virginia is my country, and I am
true as truth to her. I go with her where she goes—to destruction, if
she should be cursed with failure, to dominion, if she should be crowned
with success,” replied the guerrilla leader, as he turned, lifted the
curtain, and left the hut.

“Oh, if he’d been true! Oh, if he’d been true!” Elfie continued to sob.

Soon all was bustle in the guerrilla camp. The men were mustering and
mounting, and preparing to move. The guerrillas marched with very little
baggage, as everybody knows. And so the band was soon ready.

In about half an hour after leaving the hut, Colonel Goldsborough
returned to it, lifted the curtain, and once more presented himself
before Elfie.

“My dearest girl, we are about to go down the mountain. The pass is a
difficult and dangerous one, as you know—more dangerous still in the
descent than in the ascent. And for your safety it is best that you
should ride behind me, as you did before. Still, keeping the spirit as
well as the letter of my promise to you, Elfie, I must give you your
choice of three modes of conveyance. You may ride behind me, or you may
ride behind Parson Simmons, or you may ride alone on a sure-footed
little mountain pony which is at your service.”

“I will take the mountain pony, if you please,” said Elfie.

“But will you feel quite safe to do so, down these perilous passes?”

“I am a mountain girl, if you will please to remember, and the horse,
you say, is a mountain pony.”

“Very well, Elfie, I will have it brought to the door of your hut,” said
Colonel Goldsborough, going out.

In five minutes he returned with the pony, and came in for Elfie.

Sulkily enough the girl went out with him.

Goldsborough’s steed, the parson’s cob, and Elfie’s pony stood saddled
and bridled before the hut.

The parson was there also, apparently in charge of the three horses,
whose bridles he held gathered in his hands. And the unfortunate man
seemed to have rather more than he could do to hold them.

“Elfie,” said Albert Goldsborough, laughing, “I promised not even to
touch your hand without your leave; and I mean to keep my promise,
Therefore I must ask your gracious permission, before lifting you into
your seat. Will you grant it?”

“No!” said Elfie, placing her hand upon the pommel, and springing into
her saddle as lightly as if she were an elf indeed.

“Mr. Simmons, mount your horse. You are to be the immediate advance
guard of this lady, and ride directly in front of her; and please to
recollect that your life is the hostage of her safety,” said Colonel
Goldsborough, as he threw himself into his saddle.

“Is—is—her pony a safe one?” stammered the persecuted preacher, as he
clambered up into his seat.

“Her pony is all right,” laughed Albert. “Go ahead!”

The band, under the immediate charge of Mutchison, was now defiling
through the narrow pass leading from the table land down the side of the
mountain.

Colonel Goldsborough, with his two captives, took the same direction. He
rode on the right side of Elfie, while the preacher rode on the left,
until they came to the narrow pass down which the line of mounted men
was winding like some huge serpent.

Then Goldsborough ordered the preacher to precede Elfie, while he
himself should follow her, thus forming a guard of honor immediately
before and behind the captive bride.

In this manner they commenced the descent of the dangerous mountain
pass.

Albert Goldsborough, in the spirit of his promise, forbore to force his
conversation upon his companion.

Elfie rode on in sulky silence until her tongue was tired of keeping
still, when she opened her mouth and spake:

“I thought the ‘Devil’s Dripping Pan,’ or ‘Soup Dish,’ or whatever you
call your horrid place up there on the mountain top, was to be the
general rendezvous of your bands.”

“We thought so too, Elfie.”

“And that you and Corsoni, with your commands, had met there to wait for
the arrival of Monck and his men.”

“Such was our plan.”

“And here Corsoni moves with his command at midnight, and you march with
yours at midday!”

“Just so, Elfie!”

“In truth, then, it seems to me that you gentlemen horse-thieves don’t
know your own minds any more than honester men.”

“When a spy gets into our camps, Elfie, and discovers all our secrets,
he is apt to defeat all our plans. That little devil of a Gill, who got
into Corsoni’s camp, not only betrayed _his_ retreat to the enemy, but,
as we have lately learned, he discovered and revealed the secret of this
rendezvous. This made it necessary for us to choose another place of
gathering, to which we are now going, Elfie. I don’t mind telling you
these things, my dear, since it is utterly impossible for _you_ to
betray us,” said Albert.

And now, as the dangers of the road demanded all their attention, the
conversation ceased.

The poor preacher held his very breath for fear as he looked up, on the
right, to a precipice that towered a thousand feet above him; and then
down on the left to another precipice that descended a thousand feet
below him; and, last, along the ledge of path that lay before him, so
narrow, with such slender space to move in, that a single swerve must
have sent horse and rider down to destruction.

“Look sharp there! or you will be gone in an instant!” roared Albert
Goldsborough, throwing the nervous parson into such a panic as nearly
precipitated the catastrophe he had intended to prevent.

Elfie laughed. Her nerves were so firm and her pony so sure-footed that
she felt quite safe even when perched upon the edge of a precipice where
a goat could hardly have found footing.

The persecuted preacher was trembling from head to foot.

“I know,” he complained, “that even if I live to reach the bottom of
this mountain, which is very unlikely, I shall be good for nothing all
the rest of my life.”

As he said this, the party of three, passing around a projecting rock,
came in sight of the rear of the band, who were winding down the narrow
pass in single file below them.

“Hayden!” cried Colonel Goldsborough, calling out to one of the rear
men, who immediately halted.

“Hayden, dismount and turn your horse loose and come here and take the
parson’s bridle and lead his beast, or we shall have an accident.”

The soldier addressed smiled good-humoredly as he murmured something to
his comrade about the “inconvenience of having women and parsons
encumbering them on their march;” and then he dismounted, knotted up his
bridle, so that it should not get entangled under his horse’s feet, and
leaving his well-trained steed to walk soberly down the path, he came
and took the preacher’s bridle and led his cob carefully along the
perilous pass.

In this manner they continued their dangerous journey until they reached
the foot of the mountain.

“Thank Heaven it is over!” piously exclaimed the parson, as they found
themselves safe at the entrance of a wooded valley.

There was no road; but, guided by a pocket compass, the band took their
way westward through the forest, until, after marching for about three
miles, they came out upon an open plain, dappled here and there with
detached groves of trees and gradually ascending towards a range of
wooded hills in the distance before them.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                              THE BATTLE.

        And now there breathed that haunted air
        The sons of sires who conquered there,
        With arms to strike and souls to dare
                As quick, as far as they!

               ·       ·       ·       ·       ·

        He woke to die ‘mid flame and smoke,
        And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,
        And death shots falling thick and fast
        As lightning from a mountain cloud.—FITZ GREEN HALLECK.


“There is our new rendezvous,” said Colonel Goldsborough, pointing to
the distant range of wooded hills, where the autumn foliage was now
glowing redly under the rays of the descending sun, and towards which
the whole band was now moving leisurely.

But they had not marched more than a mile when Mutchison, who had been
riding in advance of the whole line, came suddenly galloping back to the
rear with every mark of hurry and excitement.

He drew rein beside his superior officer, and handed him a field-glass,
saying hastily:

“Colonel, look there!”

“What is it?” inquired Goldsborough, raising the instrument to his eyes.

“There, at our rendezvous: the cloud of dust, the smoke, and hark! there
is the sound of musketry! There must be a battle going on there,
Colonel!”

“THERE IS!” hurriedly exclaimed Goldsborough. “Mutchison, dash forward.
Send half a dozen men back to guard the prisoners, who must remain here
while we join battle. Then get the band in order. Form on company front;
and march! I will be with you as soon as I have provided for the safety
of these!”

Mutchison wheeled his horse and galloped forward, carrying with him a
cloud of dust, in which he soon disappeared.

Goldsborough looked around for a place of safety in which to bestow his
captive bride and her clerical companion.

Nothing better offered than a grove of trees, in the midst of which
sparkled a cool spring, now, however, rather choked with fallen autumn
leaves.

He led his party there and requested them to dismount.

The poor parson very willingly obeyed, and got off the horse of which he
was heartily tired.

“I suppose there is nothing left now but to submit to our fate and trust
in Providence,” said Elfie, as she also dismounted and seated herself
upon a heap of dried leaves that the wind had drifted against the roots
of a great oak tree.

“Yes, my dear young lady, that is it! We are in the power of the men of
Belial, but the arm of the Lord is mighty to deliver us,” murmured Mr.
Simmons, when Colonel Goldsborough had passed out of hearing;
he—Goldsborough—having taken the bridles of the two horses and led them
to the other extremity of the grove, where he secured them to the trees.

“You see he has led away our horses so as to prevent us from taking
advantage of the battle to escape by flight!” said Elfie, despondently.

“I see! I see, my dear young lady! but the arm of the Lord is strong to
save. But hush! here comes the son of Beelzebub!” said the preacher, as
the guerrilla leader returned.

And in a few minutes the near galloping of other horses was heard, and
the six men sent back by Mutchison rode up, in a cloud of dust.

“Guard these two prisoners until farther orders!” said Colonel
Goldsborough, as he put spurs to his horse and dashed onward after his
band.

He flew over the plain at a tremendous rate of speed, yet it was some
ten minutes before he came up with his band.

They were now within half a mile of their rendezvous, where the black,
heavy clouds of dust and smoke, and the continuous sound of firing,
assured them that a fierce battle was going on.

On reaching his band, Colonel Goldsborough did but stop long enough to
breathe his horse. And then he commanded a halt, and raising his hand
cried out:

“Attention, my men! The rendezvous has been surprised by the enemy! The
Free Sword seems hard beset! We must free him! To the rescue, then!”

A shout from the men responded to this speech.

“Attention! Forward! March!”

The guerrillas galloped as gayly onwards towards the field of blood “as
to a festival.”

As they approached the scene of action the evidences of a fearful
engagement encircled them.

Ascending the hill, they entered into a dense atmosphere of black and
sulphurous smoke and dust through which sabres glanced and firearms
blazed, and horses and riders loomed and vanished, and from which arose
the confused sounds of the shouts of men, the neighs of steeds, the
clash of steel, the report of musketry, and the shrieks and groans of
the wounded and the dying.

Over fallen steeds and writhing men—through flashing sabre strokes and
whistling rifle shots—through smoke and dust—through blood and fire—the
guerrillas dashed, striking here and there—striking everywhere where the
blue coat of a Union soldier could be seen in the chaos.

It was a general melee, more terrible in its effects than any pitched
battle could have been. It was a mutual massacre, in which no quarter
was asked or given. Such was the engagement at —— Hill, long to be
remembered in the bloody annals of the Valley.

Neither Monck nor any of his officers or men were to be seen anywhere on
the field. It seemed evident that his forces had not joined those of
Colonel Corsoni, whose command had engaged the Federals alone.

In the thickest carnage might be seen the form of the Free Sword, an
inspired form—a very Demon of Destruction—dealing death-blows right and
left—striking everywhere, and always with fatal effects; struck at from
every quarter, but always in vain! He seemed to bear a charmed life, and
to wield an invincible weapon.

And by his side—oh, sight of fear and horror!—by his side, in the
fiercest of the fight, rode his devoted wife! Why she was there—why he
permitted her to be there—no one could tell. Whether he had no wish or
no power to withstand the force and fire of her will that clung to him
so desperately for life or death, or whether they had been surprised too
suddenly to be separated, is not known. All that is certainly known is
that she was with him throughout that bloody day. She seemed to ride
scathless through that scene of slaughter, unharming and unharmed! Who,
indeed, would have willingly hurt her?

At the moment that Goldsborough with his band rode up, the Free Sword
and his two hundred faithful followers were fighting desperately against
an overwhelming force.

Goldsborough brought to his relief nearly two hundred more men. Yet
still the united forces of the two leaders numbered less than four
hundred ill-armed and ill-disciplined guerrillas; and these were opposed
to the whole regiment, of Rosenthal’s well-trained veteran cavalry,
armed with their death-dealing Henry rifles—those sixteen shooters, that
augmented their fighting powers more than ten-fold.

The guerrillas fought well, fearlessly, recklessly.

But who could doubt the issue?

Again and again the voice of the young Federal commander was heard above
the din of battle, calling upon those brave, misguided men to surrender
and save themselves.

In vain! He might as well have roared to the roaring winds!

The battle raged with increasing fury. The waves of war rolled east,
rolled west, as the hard-pressed guerrillas fell back, or rallying for a
space, pushed forward.

At length, towards sunset, the guerrillas began to scatter and fly.

Colonel Goldsborough tried to rally them, but in vain. Their desperate
courage had suddenly failed. Goldsborough looked around for the cause of
this panic; and he discovered it in the absence of their idolized
leader!

It was true. Neither the brave Free Sword nor his heroic wife could
anywhere be seen on the field. The fiery spirit that had animated and
inspired the whole band was gone. And fear had fallen upon his
followers. And all who were not dead, wounded or prisoners, were flying
in all directions hotly pursued by the Federals.

Colonel Goldsborough, seeing that the day was lost, wheeled around, put
spurs to his horse, and dashed down the hill-side, in the direction of
the grove where he had left Elfie and the parson under guard.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                      THE FATE OF THE FREE SWORD.

                “No more, there is no more,” he said,
                “To lift the sword for now!
                    For thee my fields were won,
                And thou hast perished.”—
                They might have chained him as before
                That stony form he stood,
                For the power was stricken from his arm,
                As from his lips the blood.—HEMANS.


Riding recklessly over the dead and dying, Albert Goldsborough rushed
onward, until at the entrance of an old turnpike road he was arrested by
a sight that might have stopped an army in its flight.

In the dust, on the ground, knelt Vittorio Corsoni, the terrible Free
Sword, supporting in his arms the pale form of his beloved wife, and
gazing down on her still face in unutterable anguish and despair. Beside
him lay his hat and plume and his sword, cast off as though useless to
him evermore.

“Dead!” exclaimed Albert Goldsborough, in horror and amazement.

The Free Sword did not reply or look up; he did not even seem to see or
hear the man who addressed him.

The sound of approaching horses’ feet startled Colonel Goldsborough from
his trance of amazement.

“Corsoni! It is no use to sit there and be captured! Up and fly! _all is
lost!_” he exclaimed, putting spurs to his horse and speeding away.

“Yes, _all is lost_!” murmured the Free Sword, without removing his eyes
from the dead face over which he bent.

Another horseman came thundering up in a cloud of dust. It was
Mutchison.

“Fly! fly, Colonel Corsoni! Rosenthal is within a hundred yards of you!
And all is over!” shouted the giant, as he rushed past without drawing
rein.

“Yes, all is over,” muttered the Free Sword, dropping his face down to
the cold face beneath him.

“Up and away! We are dead beat!” shouted another equestrian whirlwind
that rushed past him.

“Dead beat!” echoed the Free Sword, mechanically.

Abershaw was the next who came. He hurriedly dashed up, threw himself
from his saddle, and led his horse up to his chief, hastily exclaiming:

“Colonel Corsoni! For heaven’s sake, fly! There is not a moment to be
lost! Rosenthal is a few yards behind! Here! I have brought you a fresh
horse! Mount and away! Save yourself!”

The Free Sword lifted his despairing eyes to the face of his faithful
follower and pointed in silence to the still form in his arms.

“Madam Corsoni fainted! No wonder, poor lady! Well, I will stay and take
care of her. It does not matter so much if I am captured; I shall be
treated as a prisoner of war. But you, Colonel! oh, you know the doom
that awaits you if you are taken! Mount my horse! Fly and save
yourself!”

“Save myself! From what? The worst has happened that could possibly
befall me. Oh, Abershaw, look here! and tell me if my life is worth the
saving now!” cried Corsoni, in a heart-broken voice, as he pointed to
the dead face of his wife.

“Dead! killed! Oh, Heaven, how did that happen?” exclaimed Abershaw,
overwhelmed by the sight.

“A Minie ball. She saw the murderous rifle aimed, and threw herself
before me, and received in her heart the shot that was intended for my
bosom!” said Corsoni, in a voice of such deep despair that his follower
groaned aloud.

But time pressed, pressed fearfully; a life hung on every minute! And
Abershaw could not leave his chief to indulge in sorrow.

“My Colonel—my brave Free Sword!” he exclaimed, “rouse yourself! A
soldier should not yield to grief any more than to fear.”

Corsoni sadly shook his head.

“Come, come, my chief, look up. Think of all your glorious achievements
in the cause of the young Confederacy—”

“It was for her—for her, and she is gone,” moaned Corsoni.

“Then up and avenge her! Think of all that you have already done, of all
that you may still do for the cause. Think what a career opens before
you. When the Confederacy triumphs—”

Corsoni impatiently waved his hand and shook his head.

“The Confederacy,” said the Free Sword, bitterly. “What do you suppose I
really cared for the Confederacy? I am a foreigner. What are your civil
wars to me? It was for _her_ I drew my sword. She bade me draw it in the
cause of the Confederacy, and I did it, as, if she had bid me draw it in
the cause of the Union, or of the Lord, or of the Devil, I would have
done it. It was for her! for her! and now she is gone!—oh, my pale love!
This was not what I took you from your convent for,” he added, gazing
with infinite sorrow on the still face.

Then he turned to his follower, saying:

“But go and save yourself, Abershaw. You have yet something to live
for.”

“No; I shall stay with you and—her,” firmly replied the man.

Even as Abershaw spoke their pursuers dashed up.

“Ah, here you are, you demon. Yield!” thundered the foremost soldier,
dismounting.

“I yield,” gently replied the Free Sword.

Colonel Rosenthal rode up, attended by his staff, among whom was
Wing—Wing, his adjutant, with the first lieutenant’s straps upon his
shoulders.

“You are a prisoner, Colonel Corsoni. Deliver up your sword,” said
Justin, gravely, as he dismounted.—“My God!”

This last exclamation was struck from his lips by the sight of Alberta’s
dead body in the arms of her heart-broken husband.

And the most inveterate pursuers of the Free Sword were now gathered
around him with looks of pity in their warworn faces.

Colonel Rosenthal lifted his hand, and silently waved these men away.

And all retired except Adjutant Wing.

“I am very sorry for this, Corsoni, very, very sorry,” said Justin
compassionately.

The Free Sword looked up. His youthful face seemed suddenly to have
grown old and haggard with unutterable woe. Then he gently laid down the
form of his wife, and struggled to his feet, and put his hand to his
side for the sword that was no longer there. He looked about to find and
deliver it to his captor. As he did so, the blood suddenly gushed in
torrents from an unsuspected wound in his breast, and his face became
livid.

“You are hurt, Corsoni,” said Justin, in a pitiful voice.

“Am I? I didn’t know,” answered the Free Sword, as he reeled and fell
beside the body of his wife—DEAD.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                           AFTER THE BATTLE.

              Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,
                When none beside did wake!
              Oh, womanly she paled in fight
                For one beloved’s sake!
              And her little hand defiled with blood,
              Her tender tears of womanhood
                Most woman-pure did make.—E. B. BROWNING.


Adjutant Wing knelt down beside the dead and took two fresh white
pocket-handkerchiefs from his bosom—Adjutant Wing was rather dainty for
a soldier, in some of his habits, and constantly exposed himself to the
raillery of his companions by his weakness for clean linen. He now
covered with the handkerchiefs the poor dead faces, and, still kneeling,
gazed upon the two bodies, while great tears rolled slowly down his
cheeks.

“You are weeping, Wing,” said Colonel Rosenthal, kindly.

“I cannot—cannot help it,” said the boy, sobbing aloud. “When I look at
these two, and remember that they were kind to me, and that I betrayed
them to this death, I cannot help it. Oh, my Colonel, I have shed some
bitter tears in my life. But these are the bitterest that ever fell from
my eyes!”

“Wing, what you did was done as a sacred duty in the service of your
country.”

“Yes, I know; but the duty was very revolting to me. Once I said that
nothing on earth could ever induce me to become a spy; but that was
before the war, and I was in no condition to judge of the matter.”

As Wing sobbed forth these words Colonel Rosenthal started and looked at
him wistfully for a minute; then, seemingly satisfied by the scrutiny,
he said:

“Our military duties are often revolting to us, my boy; but still they
are _duties_—_sacred duties_—and must be performed. I suppose the judge
who pronounces a sentence of death, and the sheriff who executes it,
both feel their duty to be a painful one; but they do it. I am sorry for
these people, Wing—very, very sorry for them; but—they were traitors.”

“Oh, call them no hard names over their still, cold bodies, my Colonel.
Their lips are mute and cannot reply. _They thought they were right_,
and so thinking, they were true to themselves, and true, oh heaven, how
true to each other! Theirs was a rare love, my Colonel; stronger than
life and death!” wept Wing.

“Perhaps the fate that they have just met was, under all the
circumstances, the best for them,” said Justin.

“Oh! how much the best! Poor lady!” said Wing, uncovering the face of
Alberta and gazing tenderly upon it. “Poor, poor lady! She had but one
great dread in all her dreadful life—to be separated from her beloved.
She had but one earnest prayer—to be with him always, forever and ever.
Her prayer is granted. As she clung to him through all his desperate
life, so he would not desert her even in death! no, not even to save
himself from certain capture and from the shameful scaffold. Call them
traitors, if you must; but they were true as truth to each other—true in
life and in death! And they are inseparable for all eternity. Poor girl!
I remember her words once when speaking of Dante’s story of Francesca
and Paulo in Hell:—‘It might have been worse,’ she said. ‘_One might
have been in Heaven!_’ And I knew that she was thinking of herself and
her ‘Free Sword.’”

As Wing spoke, he reverently covered the faces of the dead and arose
from his knees.

“Oh, my Colonel,” he next said, “after all, I think that those who have
fallen in this war may be happier than those who survive, burdened with
the memory of its horrors!”

At that moment the sound of many horses’ feet was heard approaching, and
presently a squad of Union cavalry rode up, having Albert Goldsborough,
Abershaw, Haddycraff, and other guerrilla officers as prisoners.

“We cut off their retreat, sir,” reported the officer in command of the
party.

Colonel Rosenthal advanced to receive the sword of the guerrilla leader.

Goldsborough handed it over in perfect silence. There was not a word
spoken between the two.

Then Colonel Rosenthal ordered the prisoners taken to the rear and
guarded.

Next he beckoned an officer, and directed him to take charge of the
remains of the Free Sword and his unfortunate wife, and to see to their
removal, and their preparation for decent interment.

Finally, he called Wing and Hay (who had succeeded in making his escape
from Monck’s camp) to attend him, and rode off to inspect in person a
certain locality in the neighborhood, where he proposed that his
regiment should bivouac for the night.

They followed the old turnpike road down the hill, until they came to
the open plain, across which Goldsborough’s men had marched that day.

Straight before them, under the dark eastern horizon, was dimly seen a
grove, or piece of woods.

“There is the place where we shall halt to-night, Wing. As we have no
tents, the trees must give us shelter. And I am told that there is a
fine spring of water. Our tired and hungry men will be comfortable
there,” said Colonel Rosenthal, pointing to the grove.

“And the wounded, my Colonel?” inquired Wing, gently.

“You always remember the wounded, my boy. Well, they will be taken care
of. Captain Hopkins and Surgeon Sharpe are in charge of the wounded. And
lest you should also think the dead may be neglected, I will inform you
that Lieutenant Barnwell and Chaplain Jones are entrusted with the
arrangements for their Christian burial. Are you satisfied now, Wing?”

“Thanks, my Colonel, for your information, and also for your kind
indulgence of what might be called impertinence in me,” said Wing,
respectfully raising his cap.

Colonel Rosenthal smiled wistfully, but did not reply.

The sun had long set, and the moon had not yet risen. But it was a
clear, bright, starlight night, and they continued their way across the
plain, strangely soothed by the sweet stillness and peacefulness of the
scene.

They rode along, drawing nearer and nearer to the grove, until at
length, when they were within a few hundred yards of it, they were
startled by screams issuing from its shadows, a woman’s piercing
screams, mingled with cries of—

“Murder! Murder! Help! Help!”




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                          ELFIE IN THE GROVE.

               Ask me not what the maiden feels,
                 Left in that dreadful hour alone;
               Perchance her reason stoops or reels
                 Perchance a courage not her own,
               Braces her mind to desperate tone.—SCOTT.


“Quick, boys! There is something dreadful going on in that grove! Some
woman in extreme peril!” hastily exclaimed Justin Rosenthal, as he put
spurs to his horse, and galloped forward, hotly followed by Wing and
Hay.

The grove, at the point at which they approached it, was too thickly
grown to admit the entrance of their horses.

So Colonel Rosenthal threw himself from his saddle, fastened his horse
to a tree, drew his sword and plunged into the thicket.

This example was quickly followed by his companions.

The cries of distress had ceased; and the silence and the darkness of
the place rendered it rather difficult for our Don Quixote to decide
where to turn his steps and the point of his sword for the delivery of
the distressed damsel.

“We must scatter ourselves, boys! Each must take a different direction
and beat about the woods until we discover the cause of those cries! And
he who first comes upon the scene of violence must shout for the others!
Now go! And may Heaven grant that we may be in time!” hastily exclaimed
Justin, waving his sword in the directions he wished the others to take,
and then turning and striking deeper into the shadows of the grove.

It was very still and dark. Nothing could be seen but the occasional
glance of a star, peeping down between the upper branches of the trees;
and nothing could be heard but the ripple of a stream, hidden somewhere
in the deep, dry undergrowth of the thicket.

Justin was completely bewildered, knowing not which way to turn.

“The unfortunate woman, whoever she is, must be murdered or worse before
this! At all events, she is silenced,” he said to himself.

At that moment another cry arose; but this time it was a man’s
voice—weak, quavering, cracked—but unmistakably a man’s voice, crying:

“Help! Murder! Help! Oh, all good Christians, help!”

“Gracious Heavens! has the woman got the better now, and is she killing
the man; or what is the meaning of this second outcry?” exclaimed the
colonel, in droll perplexity.

And guided by the cries, he clutched his sword with a firmer clasp, and
strode on in the direction from which they came. He had not gone many
yards before the cries arose for the third time; and now, as in the
first instance, it was the woman’s voice, screaming:

“Murder! Murder! Help! Help!”

“This is very perplexing. Apparently there are two of them in distress,
and they take turns in yelling,” said Justin, as he rushed on towards
the scene of action.

Suddenly he came upon it. Striking through the thicket, he entered an
opening in the grove where the clear bright starlight shone down upon a
strange picture—a man, and a woman, each bound to a tree, only a few
yards from each other.

“Help! Murder! Help!” shrieked the man.

“Don’t come near me, you monster! I have a revolver concealed in my
bosom and I will shoot you as soon as I would a mad dog!” screamed the
woman.

“ELFIE!” exclaimed Justin Rosenthal, in astonishment, advancing towards
her.

“Oh, Justin dear! Justin, is it you? Thank Heaven! But I took you for a
prowling guerrilla!” cried Elfie, struggling to free herself enough to
welcome him.

“I was drawn here by your cries for help, Elfie. But who had the
insolence and barbarity to treat you in this manner?” demanded Colonel
Rosenthal, as with his sword he severed the cords that bound the girl
and set her free.

“Let me sit down and breathe, and then I’ll tell you all about it,” said
Elfie, with a sigh of relief, as she sank down on a heap of dry leaves
at the foot of the tree.

Justin stood looking at her with eyes full of doubt, pity and anxiety.

“Don’t stand staring at me as if I had two heads, man! Go and set the
parson free. He is a Christian hero, he is! and by that time I shall
recover my breath and be able to talk to you,” said Elfie, with
something of her old snappishness. And truly the poor girl had had
enough to make her feel cross and nervous.

“I beg your pardon, Elfie,” said Justin, smiling, as he turned to obey
her.

He cut the cords that bound the minister, who immediately stretched his
arms, and then dropped upon the ground with a fervent:

“Thank goodness!”

At that moment Wing and Hay came up from different points. On seeing
Elfie, Wing started and withdrew a little into the shade.

Justin went up to him said:

“I suppose you were led here by the cries, as I was?”

“Yes, sir, they resounded through every part of the grove, I assure
you.”

“Well, I hope there has been no great harm done. We found a parson and
the young lady whom you met as a captive among the guerrillas, bound
here to a couple of trees. I do not quite understand the affair yet; but
they are apparently uninjured. Now go, Wing—take Hay with you, and ride
back to the field. Tell Lieutenant-Colonel Wedgewood that we shall
encamp in and around this grove to-night. Tell him to send all the men
here who are not engaged in looking after the wounded and the dead, or
in guarding the prisoners.”

Wing bowed, beckoned Hay to follow him and left the scene.

Justin turned and seated himself on a fragment of rock near the bank of
leaves on which Elfie rested.

“I am very glad, Elfie, to find you safe at last,” he said, a little
dubiously.

“Yes, thank Heaven, I have passed safely through the terrible days of my
captivity,” said Elfie.

“I can answer for that. The men of Belial, bad as they were, didn’t dare
to harm a hair of her head. From their chief downward, they all treated
her with respect,” said the preacher.

“Hold your tongue, Mr. Simmons. I don’t need that _you_ should endorse
me. I have little reason to be grateful to you, goodness knows, for
saving your life at the expense of my liberty,” snapped Elfie.

The preacher bowed his head under this rebuke. And Justin Rosenthal
looked from one to the other in perplexity.

“I will explain, Justin; but it is a long story, I can tell you. I have
been through a campaign since I saw you last,” said Elfie.

“But before you begin, my dear young lady, let me ask the captain here a
question.—Sir, might you have a morsel to eat or drink about you?”
piteously inquired the poor consumptive preacher.

“No, I mightn’t, I am sorry to say,” smiled Justin.

“You see we haven’t broken our fast since the morning. And I feel a sort
of inward sinking. And if you had a scrap of hard tack or a drop of old
rye—”

“I regret very much that I have nothing of the sort. You know that we
cavalry rangers, out after guerrillas, carry no provisions. We look to
live on the country,” said Colonel Rosenthal.

The poor preacher laid his thin hands over his empty bread-basket, and
groaned aloud. Even Elfie pitied him.

“Never mind, Mr. Simmons,” she said, “you heard the order given by
Colonel Rosenthal. The men will be here presently, and you may depend
they will not come empty-handed. We shall have a sumptuous supper
presently.”

With this piece of comfort the preacher tried to content himself.

“And now, Elfie,” said Justin Rosenthal.

“Well, I suppose you heard that our picnic party was surprised by the
guerrillas, and that I was carried off?”

“Yes, I heard of that, Elfie, through a spy I sent into the camp of the
Free Sword. Tell me, my dear little friend, what happened after the spy
had left,” said Justin.

And Elfie began and related in detail all her adventures while a captive
among the guerrillas. She told the story with firmness, and even with
humor, until she came to describe her forced marriage, when she suddenly
burst into tears of rage and shame, and wept and sobbed as if her heart
would break.

When Justin had heard the whole story of the marriage, he laid his hand
upon Elfie’s bowed black head in a protecting and reassuring manner, and
laughed as he said:

“Why, Elfie, the marriage is not binding upon you, unless you choose to
make it so by yourself acknowledging its validity. If you protest
against it as a forced marriage, and bring this clergyman here as your
witness, it cannot hold good.”

“But there was a li—license! and a ring—ring! and an ordain—dained
minister! and even a man—man to give me away! and all was
reg—reg—reg—regular!” answered Elfie, scarcely able to articulate
through her gasping sobs.

“Nonsense, my dear girl! The vital, valid, lawful part of the affair,
without which all the rest was all invalid, null and void, was wanting,”
laughed Justin.

“And what was that—at?” sobbed Elfie.

“The consent of the woman, of course!”

“Oh, but they had that!”

“ELFIE!”

“They took it by force, as they took me. That man—an—who acted as my
pap—pap—papa, took me by my neck and hair and bobbed my head down three
or four times in the most positive manner, as if he meant me to say,
‘Yes, _yes_, YES!’ and the ceremony went on.”

“The villain! But, Elfie, my dear, that was no consent. Nonsense, my
child! You are no more bound in law or gospel to your guerrilla abductor
than you are to any other savage you can think of. Give yourself no
uneasiness on that subject, _Miss Fielding_,” said Justin, with an
intentional emphasis on Elfie’s maiden name.

Apparently Elfie was not grateful for the consideration.

“Justin Rosenthal, I’ll thank you not to call me ‘Miss Fielding!’ How do
I know but what I am Mrs. Goldsborough? I hate to be placed in
unequivocal position; and I _won’t_ be neither, there! Call me Elfie.
The name given me in baptism is the only one either you or I can feel
dead sure I am entitled to bear!” exclaimed the girl, passionately.

“Very well, my child. Just as you please!” laughed Justin, with a shrug
of his shoulders.

Elfie pouted so long in silence that Justin found it necessary to recall
her to her narrative.

“Come, Elfie,” he said, “tell me how you and your companion in captivity
happened to be bound to these trees?”

“You know,” answered Elfie, “I told you how when Albert Goldsborough
found that a battle was in progress on the hill, he made us dismount,
and took away our horses, and set a mounted guard of six guerrillas to
watch us.”

“Yes.”

“Well, they watched us closely enough for a while. I couldn’t stir, even
to walk about and stretch my cramped limbs, without being threatened
with a rifle levelled at me!”

“The wretches!”

“And all that time we heard the firing in the distance, and knew that a
great battle was going on between the guerrillas and our own troops. And
we prayed heartily for the success of our men.”

“Your prayers were heard, Elfie.”

“Of course we could not guess which way the tide of victory would turn.
We could only see the clouds upon clouds of black and sulphurous smoke
rolling over the hill, and hear the continual firing, and smell the
suffocating fumes of gunpowder that were overpowering even at this
distance.”

“That was because the wind blew straight from the hill in this
direction.”

“In this way several hours passed, and then we began to hear the thunder
of flying horsemen crossing the plain. And one of our guard rode out to
reconnoitre, and came back in a hurry, exclaiming:

“‘By the devil! if the clock peddlers haven’t beaten us! Our men are
flying as fast as their horses can carry them before the Yankee cavalry!
I am not agoing to stay here guarding a girl and a parson, until I am
captured! What do you say, boys?’

“Apparently the ‘boys’ agreed with their companion. They rode together
and consulted in a low voice and in great excitement, while we still
felt, as it seemed, the very earth shake with the thunder of the flying
and chasing horsemen. Meanwhile I felt great hopes of being allowed to
escape. My hopes were soon destroyed, however, by the words of the
corporal, who had command of the guard.

“‘It will never do to let _them_ get off, blast them! any more than it
will do for us to stay here and be captured by the Yankees! I’ll tell
you what, boys! we will tie them to trees, so that if the colonel _does_
come back to look for them—which I doubt very much if he will, even if
he should have escaped being killed or wounded, or taken prisoner—he
will find them; that’s all! Now what do you say to that!’

“The corporal’s proposal was adopted by acclamation. And the wretches
immediately seized us and bound us, each to a tree, as you found us,
Justin. And then they mounted their horses and galloped away, and we saw
no more of them.”

“Nor of any others?”

“No! we remained here, while the night grew darker, and darker. We still
occasionally felt the earth shake under the thunder of the flying and
following horsemen; but no one entered the grove. And after a while even
_that_ noise ceased.”

“Were you frightened, Elfie?”

“No, not until a wolf or some other wild animal came up and stood before
me, and looked up in my face with his fiery eyes, as if he were
balancing the question whether he should eat me then, or take his supper
a few minutes later. I felt my flesh creep and my blood grow cold then,
Justin! And I screamed with all my might. And the creature took to its
heels and ran away!”

“Poor Elfie!”

“After that Mr. Simmons and I, thinking that some of our men might be
about, took our turns in crying, ‘Help’ and ‘Murder.’ And at last, just
as our lungs were giving out, you came to our relief, Justin.”

“And that is all!”

“Yes, except this, Justin! In the midst of our own personal distress, we
still remembered to thank Heaven for giving us the victory!”

As Elfie spoke, the sound of an approaching troop of horses was heard.
And soon they seemed to have drawn up on the outskirts of the grove.

Wing came to report to his colonel.

“The regiment has arrived on the ground, sir. Also the army wagons with
the commissary stores that were sent after us from W. Lieutenant Colonel
Wedgewood has dispatched messengers to hurry up the ambulances for the
transportation of the wounded, who are now receiving all the attention
that it is possible to bestow upon them in their present position.
To-morrow I hope to be able to submit to you a correct report of the
killed, wounded and prisoners.”

“Quite right, Adjutant,” said Colonel Rosenthal. Then, changing his tone
a little, he continued: “And now, Wing, I think you had better remain
here with this young lady and the preacher, while I go to take a look at
my poor fellows.”

And with a bow to Elfie and her companion, Justin Rosenthal walked away
from them.

Now all was cheerful bustle in and around the grove.

The men dismounted, took their saddles from their horses, and secured
the weary beasts to the trees on the outer edge of the grove.

Then they began active preparations for refreshment and rest. They
unloaded the army wagons, and every man watered and foddered his horse
before thinking of himself.

Then some went to work kindling fires to cook by; others began preparing
food; others again busied themselves with building rude shelters of
boughs to protect them from the night air.

By the orders of Colonel Rosenthal, a party of the men went to that part
of the grove where Elfie and her companions were waiting, and there,
under the immediate direction of Adjutant Wing, they constructed a
comfortable hut of cedar boughs for Elfie’s accommodation.

And soon in front of this hut a good supper was served of strong coffee,
with white sugar and condensed milk, and broiled ham, with fried
potatoes, and loaf bread and camp biscuits.

Elfie, Mr. Simmons, Colonel Rosenthal and Wing sat down to this supper.
And though every one of them played well their parts, the poor,
consumptive preacher excelled them all in gastronomic feats.

During the meal, which was eaten by torch light, strange glances were
observed to pass between Elfie and Wing. From time to time Elfie looked
furtively at the young adjutant, who sedulously avoided her glances. But
at length, when Wing surprised Elfie gazing steadily at him he opened
his dark eyes to their widest extent and favored her with a stare of
astonishment that at once put an end to the play.

After supper Elfie retired to her hut where, upon a bed of leaves, she
slept comfortably, guarded on one side of her dwelling by the old
minister, and on the other side by the young adjutant.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                          REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

            Shut out from them the bitter word,
              And serpent hiss of scorning,
            Nor let the storms of yesterday
              Disturb their quiet morning;
            Breathe over them forgetfulness
              Of all save deeds of kindness,
            And save to tears of pitying eyes,
              Press down their lids in blindness.—WHITTIER.


The next day was devoted to a solemn duty. The dead were buried where
they had fallen on the battle-field.

All except Alberta and Vittorio.

Our soldiers felt that they must find a grave in consecrated ground in
which to place the poor woman, and also that they must lay beside her
the husband for whom she so vainly died.

So after they had given Christian burial to the heroic dead, they placed
the remains of the Free Sword and his wife in an army hearse and
conveyed them to a little, old, deserted country churchyard, some three
miles distant on the road to W., where the chaplain of the regiment read
over them the funeral service, and where they were finally laid side by
side in their resting-place—not unwept.

The tears of Elfie, who attended the funeral, fell like rain. And even
Wing, who was charged with the business of the burial, was said to have
dimmed the smart gold lace of his adjutant’s uniform with drops of
sorrow.

The wounded were tenderly laid in ambulances, and sent on to W. under an
escort of one company of cavalry.

As Elfie evinced the utmost impatience to return home, and as Colonel
Rosenthal was anxious to be rid of all incumbrances, so that he might
immediately go after Monck, he next morning sent Miss Fielding under a
guard of honor, commanded by Adjutant Wing, to the Point of Rocks, from
which she was to take the evening train to Washington.

It was while waiting at a Union farm-house near the station, that Elfie
learned the final ending of the picnic party. The old farmer informed
her that after the guerrillas fled, leaving the excursionists on the
hill, they—the excursionists—went down to look for their boat, with the
intention of returning to the city by the same way in which they had
come.

But on reaching the foot of the hill and the side of the canal, they
found that their boat had been robbed of all its movable effects, and
then scuttled and sunk.

The unfortunate creatures had nothing to do but to return to the top of
the hill and lay down to sleep as well as they could in the open air.

The next morning, cold, hungry, and cruelly stiff and sore in all their
limbs, they set out to walk to the Point of Rocks, to wait for the train
to Washington.

But such a starved and wretched set of ragamuffins they looked, that the
conductor of the train, when it came, distrusted them, and refused to
take them on until they had told and proved their story.

Such was the account of the picnic party given by the old farmer to
Elfie.

“But there was one of their number who was hurt—a young man—a little man
with light hair and blue eyes. Do you know anything about him?” inquired
Elfie.

“Oh, yes,” answered the old farmer, quickly. “Oh, yes he was very badly
hurt, indeed. They brought him here on an old door, two men supporting
him in front, and two behind. And they put him on the train, and took
him on to the city with them.”

“Do you—do you—think that he was dangerously hurt?” breathlessly
inquired Elfie.

“Well, Miss, I should think he was. His skull was fractured.”

“Oh, Heaven of Heavens! I hope not—I earnestly hope not! Did you—did you
hear anything of him afterwards?” said Elfie, clasping her hands
tightly, as if she were rather entreating a favorable answer than asking
for a true one.

“No, Miss, I never heard a breath of him afterwards. Was he a relation
or friend of yours?”

“Oh, no—only an acquaintance of a few weeks. But I _would_ like to know
his fate.”

“Well, then, Miss, seeing that he is not a relation of yours, nor
likewise a very intimate friend, I might as well be frank with you. I
don’t think he could have got over that hurt. You see he was very badly
hurt. His skull was fractured. And he had laid all night without a
doctor’s assistance. And he was quite insensible when he was brought
here next morning. You wouldn’t have known he was alive if you hadn’t
put your ear down close to his mouth; so faint and low was his
breathing. And then, you see, there was that long journey back to
Washington. All enough to kill him. Everything against him. And he such
a little bit of a fellow. And so I don’t think it possible he could have
got over it,” said the farmer.

“Oh, Mim! dear Mim! it was all for my sake! And if you really are killed
I shall break my heart! I know I shall!” cried Elfie, wringing her hands
and weeping.

“Miss Fielding,” said Adjutant Wing, “there is good hope to believe that
the young man is not killed. While I was a prisoner in Monck’s camp I
got hold of a morning paper in which the return of the picnic party was
chronicled, and young Mim mentioned as ‘seriously’ injured. ‘Seriously,’
mind; not _dangerously_. And newspaper paragraphs seldom or never
_understate_ a thing.”

“That is very true, Adjutant, and very hopeful,” said Elfie, wiping her
eyes; “very hopeful; but I wish I was assured of his safety.”

“You will be so, I trust, in a very few hours. The train will be here at
six, and you will be in Washington before ten,” said Wing.

The old farmer’s hospitable wife was busy preparing as good an evening
meal as her limited means allowed her to get up for her guests.

When it was ready she invited them, to a table covered with tea, milk
and butter, home-made bread, ham and eggs; and broiled chicken, honey
and preserves.

Elfie and Wing did much honor to this meal; and by the time it was ended
the train of cars was heard thundering onward towards the station.

Elfie took leave of her kind host and hostess, thanking them earnestly
for their hospitality.

Wing placed the young lady in a comfortable seat in the best car; and
the train started again on its way to Washington.

And soon after Adjutant Wing called his men together and set out to join
his regiment.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                            ELFIE’S RETURN.

              One by one, thy duties wait thee,
                Let thy whole strength go to each,
              Let no future dreams elate thee,
                Learn thou first what these can teach.

              One by one, bright gifts from Heaven,
                Joys are sent thee here below;
              Take them readily when given,
                Ready, too, to let them go.—A. A. PROCTOR.


It was nearly ten o’clock when the train steamed into the station. Elfie
got out on the platform. As she had no luggage to look after nor even a
parasol nor a hand-bag to encumber her, she quickly made her way to the
street, where omnibus-drivers and cab-men were cracking their whips, and
vociferating their routes; and where porters were quarreling over their
loads, and policemen adding much to the general noise and confusion.

Elfie had not been robbed by the guerrillas; and she had still in her
pocket the little portemonnaie, well filled with “greenbacks” and
“fractional currency,” that her father had given her some weeks before,
when he had gone to join his regiment. So she called a carriage, taking
care to pass by all those with yelling drivers, and to select one in
charge of a well-conducted coachman.

“Where to, Miss?” inquired the latter, touching his hat, after he had
assisted Miss Fielding into her seat.

Elfie gave him the direction. The man got upon his box. And the carriage
was driven off towards the parsonage.

“Now I wonder if my sudden arrival will shock Erminie very much? Or if
it does, if the shock will hurt her? She has no reason whatever to
expect me. She may even have retired to bed. Perhaps I ought rather to
go to a hotel to-night, and send for Dr. Sales in the morning, and get
him to break the news gently to Erminie,” mused Elfie, as she sat back
in her carriage.

But she did not act upon her thought. On the contrary, she exclaimed to
herself:

“Bosh! it won’t be such a shock to her, after all! I am not returning
from the grave! She had no reason to believe me dead! And if she had
had, though she loved me very much, she didn’t love me to such excess as
to die of joy at my resurrection. And besides, I couldn’t possibly wait
till to-morrow to see her, and to hear from dear little Mim.”

And upon this decision Elfie rested, laying back at ease in her cushions
until the carriage reached the gates of the parsonage.

Then she eagerly looked out to see if there were any external signs by
which she could guess whether the household had retired for the night.

“All right! I see the lights gleaming through the library shutters, and
I know by them Erminie is still up,” she said to herself, as the
carriage stopped and the coachman got down and opened the door.

“Here is the dollar agreed upon for your fare! And here is half a dollar
extra to reward you for not roaring at travellers like the other hackmen
did!” said Elfie, as she quickly thrust the money into the man’s hand,
and opened the gate.

As the carriage drove off again, she ran up the walk leading from the
gate to the front door of the house. And when she reached it she seized
the bell-pull and rang a peal like a fire-alarm.

The door was opened by old Uncle Bob, who, on seeing his young mistress,
jumped a yard backward, exclaiming:

“Praise the Lord, Miss Elfie! is this you?”

“Yes! yes! Where is Erminie?” cried Elfie, and without waiting for an
answer, she rushed past the old man, tore open the library door, and
bounced in upon the young mistress of the mansion.

Erminie, looking like some fair spirit of peace, sat in her deep
arm-chair by the library table, reading by the light of a shaded
gas-burner.

On raising her eyes to see who it was who rushed into her presence so
rudely, and recognizing Elfie, she laid down her book and arose and
opened her arms, and folded the wild girl fondly to her bosom, while her
tears fell warmly on the little, black head.

“Thank Heaven for your safe return! Oh, Elfie, my dear, I am so happy to
have you back again!” said Erminie, gently releasing Elfie, and placing
her in the easiest resting-chair.

“I was half afraid to come upon you so suddenly, Erminie, dear. I was
afraid I should shock you. But indeed, indeed, I had not self-denial
enough to go to a hotel and stop all night, and wait until I could send
for Dr. Sales to break the news to you.”

“I am very glad you came at once to the house, my dear. The other
proceeding would have been highly improper in a young lady, travelling
alone, in a city full of soldiers,” said Erminie.

“‘Full of soldiers!’ fiddle-de-dee! I have been marching and counter
marching, fighting and flying, among soldiers and guerrillas, for the
last ten days! So I have no reason to be frightened at them. But I am
glad I didn’t startle you by pouncing in upon you so unexpectedly.”

“You startled me a little, dear; but it was with a very pleasant shock.”

“And oh! I was so impatient to see you, and to hear from my brave little
Mim. Oh, Erminie, can you tell me about my little Mim?” anxiously
inquired Elfie.

“He is quite out of danger, and is getting well fast.”

“Thank Heaven for that! I should never have got over his death if he had
died, the dear little hero! But—he _was_ in danger?”

“Oh, yes. However, that is quite past. I saw him this morning. I went to
see him every day, for your sake, Elfie.”

“Heaven bless you for that, dear! Erminie, were you very anxious about
me when I didn’t get home that night?”

“I was uneasy,” replied the Lutheran minister’s daughter, who was by no
means “gushing,” and never exaggerated her emotions. “I was uneasy: but
I thought you must have decided to prolong your excursion, and I knew
you were with a large party, well able to protect you.”

“Umph—umph!” said Elfie, who was slightly disappointed in not having
created a greater sensation. “Umph—umph! But next day, when the
excursionists got back, bringing little Mim with his skull fractured,
and the news that I had been carried off by guerrillas! How then,
Erminie?”

“I was very much shocked, and very anxious at first; and I called on
some of the ladies to learn the facts. And when I discovered that it was
your cousin and old adorer, Albert Goldsborough, who had carried you
off, I felt reassured.”

“Upon what ground, if one might inquire?” demanded Elfie, rather piqued
at her friend’s self-possession.

“Upon that of a certainty that Albert Goldsborough would allow no injury
to be done you. I foresaw that he would detain you in a sort of
honorable captivity for a while, and use all his influence and eloquence
to induce or persuade you to marry him; and that when he should fail to
do so, he would send you back to your home, as he has apparently done.”

“Indeed! Well, you have a good deal to learn from me yet, Erminie,” said
Elfie.

“You shall tell me all your experience since you left me dear; but not
until you have had rest and refreshment. My curiosity can wait,” said
Miss Rosenthal, touching the bell.

Catherine came to answer the summons. She had heard from Old Bob of the
arrival, and now she came in—eager, smiling diffident, and curtesying to
welcome Miss Fielding.

“Come and shake hands with me if you are glad to see me, girl! and don’t
stand there bobbing at me like a Chinese mandarin. That is no way to
welcome a friend who has returned safely from captivity among the
guerrillas,” said Elfie, heartily offering her hand to the German girl,
who snatched and pressed it to her heart and lips.

“Now, my dear Elfie, what will you have prepared? The fire, I know, is
in full blast in the kitchen range, and there is a plenty of hot water
in the boiler, and plenty of provisions in the pantry. Order what you
like, my dear. You are at home here, you know,” said Erminie.

“I know I am, thanks to your boundless hospitality. But I had a
substantial meal hours ago at an old farm-house near the railway station
at the Point of Rocks. What I want first of all is a warm bath and a
change of clothes. Oh, just only think of it, I have been ten days
without the one or the other!”

“Dear me!” said Erminie, opening her brown eyes in dismay.

If Miss Rosenthal had heard that her friend had been under fire in forty
separate fights in this time, it would not have shocked her so much.

“It is a fact, Erminie. And I tell you the deprivation has cured me of
one folly,” said Elfie, nodding her head.

“What is that?”

“The desire to serve as a soldier in the ranks. There is too much
_grime_ mixed up with the glory. I shouldn’t so much mind the sabre
strokes, nor the shot and shell, nor even the commissary coffee, salt
pork and hard tack. But I wouldn’t—no, not even for the sake of my
country—would I endure the lack of clean linen and fresh water and the
abundance of dirt and—‘_inthects_,’ as my friend Billingcoo delicately
puts it. So I think I will leave the men who are not fastidious to fight
the battles, and wear the breeches, and I will rest contented with
crinoline and cleanliness for the remainder of my life.”

“I think you would do well,” answered Erminie. “But now, after your bath
and change of clothing, you will require something. What shall it be? A
glass of mulled wine, a cup of coffee and sandwiches?”

“A cup of tea and a round of toast, if you please, my dear. I couldn’t
go anything heavier than that. Afterwards we will have such a talk! You
have no idea how much I have got to tell you, Erminie.”

“Then you shall have your bath immediately, after which you shall slip
on a dressing gown and come to my bed-room. I will order your tea served
there, where we can talk at ease.”

“You angel!—There! I don’t want to say anything sentimental or
sickening, but you _are_ an angel, if I know anything about the cloudy
creatures, which perhaps I don’t. A mere mortal might have put me off
with my own room, or any other one in this big house; but you take me to
yours; consequently you are an angel!”

“Nonsense, Elfie.”

“Oh, yes, I dare say it is nonsense—nothing more likely. Whenever I
speak from my heart I am apt to talk nonsense, I believe.”

And then, as Catherine was waiting to attend her, Elfie arose, gave her
friend a rousing kiss and left the library.

An hour later than this, at about eleven o’clock in the night, Elfie,
thoroughly refreshed with her warm bath and fresh clothing, and wrapped
in a white merino dressing gown, and with her feet thrust into white fur
slippers, sat in an easy chair before the bright little wood-fire in
Erminie’s bed-room.

Erminie sat opposite to her, and between them stood a stand with a
little tête-à-tête silver and porcelain tea service.

And while she took her tea, which Erminie shared for sociability sake,
Elfie related her adventures among the guerrillas.

“I have so much to tell you, Erminie dear, that indeed I do not know
where to begin. But first tell _me_: Have you heard from your brother or
from Britomarte lately?”

“They—they are safe?” gasped Erminie, in sudden, deadly fear.

“They are both safe at this present moment. At least it is fair to
presume that they are, for your brother was alive and well at seven
o’clock this morning; and Britomarte was alive and well at seven o’clock
this evening.”

“You saw them? You saw them both? My brother and—and Britomarte?”
anxiously inquired Erminie.

“Now I didn’t say all that. I said they were alive and well at the times
I stated. I will add that they were at liberty, in good spirits, and in
no sort of danger,” said Elfie.

“You speak of them as if they were together—are they?”

“I spoke in no such manner. Nor I did not mean to do so. Together
indeed! That’s likely. But you haven’t answered my question yet. You
haven’t told me when you heard from your brother and from your friend.”

“I got a letter from my dear Justin little more than a week ago. He had
just been appointed to the command of a regiment of cavalry on duty at
W. And he was about to start for that place immediately. His letter was
postmarked H.”

“Yes; well, I believe he is still in command of that regiment. But now
as to Britomarte. When did you hear from her?”

“About a fortnight ago. A letter postmarked Baltimore reached me, merely
saying that she was well, and giving me the mysterious information that
_you_ were under the protection of Madam Corsoni.”

“Oh, Alberta! Poor, poor Alberta!” sighed Elfie.

“What about her, my dear?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.

“Oh, Erminie, as I said before, I have so much to tell you! You have no
idea where Britomarte is?”

“None in the world, unless she is living in obscurity somewhere in
Baltimore and perhaps acting on the stage under an assumed name. Her
letters give me no information of her manner of life, and they bear no
address except the broad one—Baltimore.”

“She is not in Baltimore. She _is_, however, acting under an assumed
name an important part, in the greatest drama and on the broadest stage
the world has ever seen.”

“In the name of Heaven, Elfie, what do you mean?” demanded Erminie.

“I have no right to explain. I had no right even to say as much as I
have said. But this I _will_ impart—That it is to Britomarte’s tact,
courage and heroism that _I_ owe my deliverance from a fate far worse
than death, and Colonel Rosenthal owes the most signal victory of his
military career!—a victory that has rid the Valley of the Shenandoah
from one of its greatest scourges, and that will certainly make the
victor a brigadier-general,” said Elfie, in sympathetic pride.

“You astonish me more and more. You amaze me, Elfie! Was Britomarte a
spy?” inquired Erminie, her large brown eyes dilating to double their
size.

“I am not in Britomarte’s confidence. And if I were so, or even if I had
discovered her secrets by chance, I, who owe my earthly salvation to
her—I should be an ingrate and a traitor to betray her. So you see I
cannot clearly explain my words. But I will relate my adventures among
the guerrillas; and when you have heard them you may judge for yourself
and guess what you like; so that you hold your tongue as discreetly, or
rather, let us hope, _more_ discreetly than I have held mine,” said
Elfie, as she poured out for herself another cup of tea.

“Do so, then, my dear. I am very anxious to hear all you have to tell
me,” urged Erminie.

Elfie drank her tea and then began the story of her captivity.

As she spoke of the spy in the camp of the Free Sword, Erminie nodded
her head several times with a look of comprehension; but she made no
comment in words.

When Elfie came to speak of her forced marriage she wept with anger and
mortification; but Erminie assured her, as Justin had done before, that
the marriage was null and void in law.

“MARRIAGE IS MUTUAL CONSENT, Elfie, and there was no mutual consent
there,” she urged.

“You may be right, or you may be wrong, Erminie. I shall take counsel of
both clergymen and lawyers before I venture to decide a question in
which my honor is concerned. I would rather be a wretched wife than an
erring woman anytime. But let me go on with my story. Ah, Heaven! the
worst is behind! There were greater sufferers than myself in it!”

“Justin?” anxiously exclaimed Erminie.

“I told you before that he was alive and well. Have you forgotten that?”

“Who then?”

“Alberta! poor, poor Alberta!”

“You spoke of her just now. Of course she could not have been otherwise
than most wretched in the life she led, poor woman! But I hope no
greater misfortune overtook her!” said Erminie.

“I will tell you,” sighed Elfie.

And then she resumed the thread of her narrative, describing the march
of Goldsborough’s guerrillas and the battle of the hill, in which
Colonel Rosenthal routed the guerrillas, and in which the Free Sword and
his wife were killed.

“Killed! Oh, merciful Heaven, not that! Don’t say that Alberta was
killed in battle!” exclaimed Erminie, clasping her hand tightly, while
her eyes dilated with horror and amazement.

“Yes, she was killed,” wept Elfie.

“But how was that?”

“Oh, it seems that she would not leave him. You know what a will she
had. She would not leave him. She rode by his side through all that
bloody day! This is the way I heard the story: His horse was shot under
him. _She_ jumped from her saddle and insisted on his mounting hers, and
at that moment she saw one of our sharpshooters aim a rifle at him, and
quick as lightning she threw herself before him and received the shot in
her heart! Oh! Erminie, it was a deadly minie ball! It passed quite
through her body, killing her instantly, and entered the bosom which she
tried to shield, wounding it mortally.”

“Oh! Heaven of Heavens!” exclaimed Erminie, sobbing for pity.

“So the same ball killed them both; but not at the same instant. _He_,
in his great sorrow, never felt his own wound! He bore her off the
field, and sat down with her under the trees at the entrance of an old
turnpike road. His disappearance seemed to decide the fortunes of the
day. The guerrillas lost hope and fled. Some fled down the old turnpike
road; and, seeing Corsoni sitting there with his dead wife in his arms,
they urged him to get up and fly for his life; but he paid no attention
to them. They told him that our cavalry were in hot pursuit, and would
certainty capture him if he should remain where he was. But he scarcely
seemed to hear their words. They reminded him that when he should be
taken an ignominious death awaited him. He did not seem to care for that
or for anything on earth but the face of his dead wife, for he never
lifted his eyes from it.”

“His heart must have been broken!” wept Erminie.

“It was! Justin says it would have moved his bitterest enemy to
compassion to have seen him when he was captured. Some of our cavalry
men rode up and very naturally swore at him, and called him hard names,
and ordered him to yield. He did not return railing for railing, but
without lifting his face from the still face of his wife, he answered
simply, ‘I yield.’ Justin rode up, and, seeing this sight, ordered the
men to withdraw; and then he himself advanced to receive Corsoni’s
sword. But first he spoke some few words of sympathy and compassion for
the prisoner’s awful sorrow. Corsoni did not once reply; but laid the
body of his beloved wife down and arose to deliver up his sword. In the
act of doing so—”

Elfie broke down and wept convulsively for some moments before she could
resume her story.

—“The blood began to spout like a fountain from a wound in his chest.
And Justin said, ‘You are hurt.’ And he answered ‘Am I? I didn’t know.’
And with these words on his lips he fell dead beside his dead wife.”

Erminie was weeping; and it was some time before she could speak. When
she did, it was to say:

“Perhaps theirs was the best fate that could have befallen them—I mean
under the dreadful circumstances.”

“We all thought so. They were buried side by side in an old country
churchyard. It spoke well for the tenderness of our poor soldiers that,
tired as they were, they were willing to march three miles to lay the
poor woman’s remains in consecrated ground; and they laid her husband’s
body beside her.”

“May they rest in peace!” said Erminie, solemnly.

“Amen,” breathed Elfie.

The two girls fell into a thoughtful silence until Erminie arose to ring
the bell for Catherine to remove the tea service.

And then, as it was twelve o’clock, the friends kissed each other good
night, and Elfie went to her own old room that Catherine had prepared
for her.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                      ELFIE’S VISIT TO LITTLE MIM.

               One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,
                 Do not fear an armed band;
               One will fade as others greet thee,
                 Shadows passing through the land.

               Do not look at life’s long sorrow;
                 See how small each moment’s pain;
               God will help thee for to-morrow,
                 So each day, begin again.—A. A. PROCTOR.


“Well, here it is, and a meagre account enough,” said Elfie, opening the
morning paper as she sat with Erminie at breakfast in the library—“not
ten lines of description, if it were put in common type, but filling
nearly a whole column in great capital letters like posters.”

“What is it, dear?” inquired Erminie, who was arranging her cups and
saucers on the breakfast tray.

“The morning paper’s account of the engagement I described to you at
full length last night.”

“Read it aloud, dear, while I pour out our coffee.”

“It is hardly worth reading. It isn’t a hundredth part of what I told
you myself. But if you want to hear it, here goes:

“‘BATTLE OF BLEAK HILL. DEFEAT OF THE GUERRILLAS. DEATH OF THE NOTORIOUS
FREE SWORD.’”

Elfie read these headings, which were all in very conspicuous type. And
then she went on with the description of the fight, with the details of
which our readers are already familiar.

“I suppose that the news came by the same train that brought me last
night, although it could not be made public until this morning,” said
Elfie, as she laid aside the paper.

When they had finished breakfast, and the young mistress of the house
had issued her orders for the day to cook, housemaid and man servant,
the two young ladies went up stairs together.

“I can’t attend you in your rounds through the hospitals this morning,
Erminie dear, for I _must_ go first to see little Mim,” said Elfie, as
they parted on the landing, each to seek her own room.

“But you will go with me this afternoon?” urged Erminie, with her hand
on the knob of her door.

“Oh, yes—certainly,” answered Elfie, as she disappeared in her chamber.

The two girls came down together dressed to go out. But they parted at
the gate, as their paths lay in opposite directions.

Erminie entered the little carriage that was to take her first to the
Douglas Hospital.

Elfie walked rapidly towards Pennsylvania Avenue, where she stopped a
Navy Yard car, which took her to the eastern suburbs of the city.

She got out of the car at the corner of a quiet street, mostly built up
in small, detached houses, with small flower yards before them.

Elfie walked briskly on until she reached a little cottage in a large
garden full of fruit trees, where Mim lived with his maiden aunts, four
little bits of old ladies, with thin faces and fair hair and blue eyes,
who were as “like as peas in a pod” to each other and to Mim himself,
who loved them sincerely, and who supported them willingly off his small
salary as salesman in a fancy bazaar. “They had all lived single for his
sake, and brought him up from a baby,” said credulous little Mim, “and
now he would live single for their sakes, and take care of them in their
age.”

Elfie, in her eagerness, pulled open the garden gate, and ran up the
walk and rang the bell.

One of the little old ladies opened the door.

“Oh, Miss Suzy, how is Mr. Mim? And can I see him?” the visitor
exclaimed.

“Oh, Miss Elfie, I am so glad to see you back safe. And Mim is much
better, thank you. And of course you can see him immediately, for I do
think the sight of you will quite set him up. But maybe I’d better go
and break it to him first. His poor head is rather weak yet, and a
sudden shock might bring on the fever again.”

“Yes, I think you had better do so, Miss Suzy, and I will wait here
until you come back.”

“Do. And I will send sisters to see you. They will be so glad you’ve
come,” said the little old lady, as she left the room.

Elfie sat down in the pleasant, rural-like parlor, with its plain,
old-fashioned furniture and chintz curtains and chair covers, and waited
until she was joined by the three other little old ladies, Miss Sophy,
Miss Sary and Miss Molly, who all came running to her, and who all
kissed her and made a great crowing over her until the return of their
elder sister.

Miss Suzy led Elfie up stairs to a clean, whitewashed and
white-curtained chamber, where, in a white-covered easy chair, little
Mim, in his dressing gown and slippers, and with his head bound up,
reclined.

He made an effort to rise and receive his visitor, but fell back
immediately upon his cushions.

“Oh, Mim, dear, don’t try to get up, please. I will come and sit quite
close to you, if Miss Suzy will let me,” said Elfie, gently going to his
side, and taking his thin hand, and looking piteously in his pale face.

“Miss Fielding, this is _so_ kind of you to come to see me. It does me
so much good. You can’t think how anxious I have been to hear of your
safety. I think anxiety kept me back from recovery more than anything
else. I am so grateful to you for taking the trouble of coming to see me
to-day,” said the little hero.

“Oh, Mim, dear, what is there I wouldn’t do to show my sense of your
worth and my obligation to you!” said Elfie, with feeling, as she seated
herself in the chair that Miss Suzy had been holding behind her, and
mutely pressing her to take.

“You overwhelm me, Miss Fielding—you do, indeed,” said little Mim, with
emotion. “I have the greatest respect for you, and for all the ladies,
and I thought it was no more than just natural to lay down my life for
you, if necessary—what any man would do for any lady.”

“But, dear Mim, we had proof enough that day that there wasn’t a man on
the ground who was willing to risk getting his head broken to save me
from being carried off by the guerrillas, except yourself. Oh, dear Mim,
what shall I ever do to prove how much I thank and honor you?”

Little Mim blushed up to the edges of his hair, and could not find words
to reply.

“_Oh, dear, deary me_,” sighed Miss Suzy to herself, “I hope she won’t
marry him out’n gratitude. I truly hope and trust she won’t marry him
out’n gratitude. Her property is all constipated by the rebels, and he
hasn’t the means, with his little salary, of supporting us and a wife,
and a whole lot of little ones besides. Lord have messy upon us!”

While Miss Suzy thus bemoaned herself, little Mim found his tongue, and
answered, like a miniature Bayard or Roland:

“Miss Fielding, I now thank Heaven for my broken head, and for every
pain that I have suffered in your cause. Miss Fielding, I would have had
not only my head, but every bone in my body broken, to have proved my
regard for you, or for any of the ladies, and to have awakened such
esteem in your mind would have been consolation and reward enough,” he
added with enthusiasm.

“_Oh, Lord, it’s coming_,” moaned Miss Suzy to herself, “it’s coming! I
know it’s coming. They’ll be engaged before she leaves the room, and
married before the month is out.”

Elfie laid her hand lightly on the bandaged head.

“Did you suffer much pain, Mr. Mim?”

“No, Miss Fielding—nothing to speak of,” he answered, slightingly. And
then, as if to change conversation from himself, he laughed and said,
“Not near so much as some others.”

“Why, Mim, dear, what do you mean? Were any of the others injured? Not
that I care if every coward among them had had his neck broken, so that
_you_ were safe. But I thought that you were the only one wounded.”

“So I was, Miss Fielding. But I had rather had my wound than been
compelled to change clothes with any of those guerrillas, and
caught—what some of my companions caught! On my own account I bear no
malice to that big man, for, if he did break my head, he left me my
clean clothes.”

Elfie laughed at the recollection of the exchange.

“Such a set of disreputable ragamuffins as they looked, Miss Fielding! I
heard afterwards that some of them were denied and driven away from
their own doors, and had some trouble before they could make themselves
recognized by their own landladies.”

“Served them right, the cowards! It would have served them right if they
had been made to wear those tatters for the rest of their lives!”

“I think you are hard on them, Miss Fielding. What could seventeen men
do against two hundred guerrillas?”

“They could have died,” said Elfie, ruthlessly.

“Yes, but, Miss Fielding, the guerrillas didn’t want to kill them; they
only wanted to take their victuals and clothes and dance with their
partners.”

“They could have resisted, and got their heads broken, as _you_ did, my
brave Mim! They could have proved their manhood in that way, if they had
had any manhood to prove. But I suppose they really had not. You were
the only man among them, Mim, dear,” said Elfie.

Again little Mim was overwhelmed and dumbfounded.

“_Oh lor!_” sighed Miss Suzy to herself—“_Oh dear!_ Now they’re getting
on dangerous ground again. I know, if I wasn’t in the room, she’d offer
to marry him out’n gratitude, and he’d accept, and then there! But I’ll
take care not to leave the room while she is in it. If he makes an
excuse to get rid of me by asking me to go and fetch anything, I’ll just
knock on the floor for some one to come up and bring it. For stir from
this room I will not!” she grimly resolved.

Apparently little Mim also thought that the conversation was getting
upon dangerous ground, for again he diverted it from himself.

“I don’t know, after all, but what it would have been better if they
_had_ resisted the exchange of clothing and got broken heads rather than
what they did get. Though indeed they might have got both, for that
matter.”

“What was it, Mr. Mim?” inquired Elfie, very indiscreetly. People ought
to be very cautious how they ask questions.

“Well, Miss Fielding, a sort of irritating—a—a—sort of
irritating—a—a—a—sort of irritating—RASH!” at last triumphantly
exclaimed little Mim, elated at having found an inoffensive word to
describe the calamity that had overtaken his companions.

“Glad to hear it,” said remorseless Elfie—“hope whatever it is, it will
‘irritate’ them for the rest of their mortal career.”

“But of all the victims,” laughed little Mim, “the greatest sufferer was
that dandy fellow—what was his name? Nincomfool?—Sickapoop?—Billydoo?
Whatever was the fellow’s name? The one with the tea-rose in his
button-hole, who played the guitar and cried and begged so when the big
guerrilla made him give up his fine raiment and clothe himself in
rags—Sickafool?—Billypoop?”

“Billingcoo?” suggested Elfie.

“Yes—thanks. I knew his name was something that put one in mind of
turtle doves and love-letters! Oh! Miss Fielding—!” And little Mim
laughed.

“What is it, then? What about Billingcoo?”

“I don’t think he got the rash; but I do think he suffered under the
impression that he had absorbed through the pores of his skin the
greater half of the weight of rags he wore. He spends his whole income
in vapor baths and cologne water!”

“Poor dandy! I hope and trust he may be drafted after the next
enrollment! Three years of military duty would take the nonsense out of
him,” said Elfie, as, much to the relief of Miss Suzy, she arose to take
leave.

“You will stay a little longer with me?” politely pleaded little Mim.

“I would gladly do so; but I promised Miss Rosenthal to be home to an
early dinner, so as to be able to go with her to the hospitals this
afternoon,” said Elfie.

“Every one is praising Miss Rosenthal. She is called the Angel of the
Hospitals,” said Mim.

“She is rightly so called.”

“She has been very kind to _me_ also—finding time in the midst of all
her engagements to come to see _me_.”

“_I_ owe her another debt of gratitude in that, Mr. Mim. Now good-bye
for the present,” said Elfie, holding out her hand.

“You will come again?” he inquired, looking up pitiably through his
hollow eyes.

“Indeed I will come often. I will come every day; and to-morrow I will
find you some fruit and flowers, late as it is in the season; and I will
bring you the last good new novel that I can find.”

“Oh no! don’t trouble yourself in that way, Miss Fielding. Bring
yourself! that will be all sufficient for me,” said little Mim,
gallantly.

“I will bring myself and whatever else I please, Mr. Mim. So there now!
Now good-bye for to-day. And remember that, present or absent, I shall
never forget your brave defence of me, Mr. Mim.”

“Good-bye, and God bless you for this delightful visit, Miss Fielding.”

And so Elfie left the room, escorted by Miss Suzy, who though she really
liked her young visitor very well, was now heartily glad to see her out.

In the room below the other sisters had a nice little luncheon spread
out upon a table covered with a clean cloth. Tea and toast; chipped beef
and light biscuits; and stewed apples and new milk.

They pressed Elfie so hospitably that she was obliged to sit down and
partake of the refreshments.

After which she thanked them and took leave.

When Elfie was fairly out of the front garden gate, Miss Suzy closed the
house-door, and then turned to her sisters and raised her finger in
mysterious warning.

“What ever is the matter now?” inquired Miss Molly, and echoed Miss
Sophy and Miss Sarah, gazing at their elder sister in perplexity and
uneasiness.

“We don’t want Jim to marry, do we?” she inquired.

“Oh lor’!” exclaimed the other sisters, in horrified chorus.

“Well, then, we must keep a good look-out! She’s a nice girl and I like
her! but if we don’t take care, she’ll marry Jim, whether or no!”

“Marry Jim!” echoed all the other sisters.

And if Miss Suzy had said, “She will murder Jim,” and they had believed
her, her words could not have caused more consternation.

“Yes, she will!” repeated the elder sister.

“Marry Jim! Our Jim! Oh no! she’s a pretty girl, and a clever girl, and
a good girl! and we like her! but we can’t afford to let her have our
Jim! Our Jim must not marry!”




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING IN THE HOSPITAL.

                 Forgot were hatred, wrongs and fears;
                 The plaintive voice alone she hears,
                     Sees but the dying man.—SCOTT.


When Elfie got back to the parsonage she found Erminie waiting for her
in the library, where the dinner table for two had been set.

At Elfie’s age girls can eat a hearty luncheon and immediately
afterwards eat a hearty dinner, and suffer no inconvenience from
indigestion either.

So Elfie sat down to the table and opened her napkin.

“How is Mr. Mim?” kindly inquired Erminie.

“Poor fellow! I do believe but for his strict temperance habits, that
blow would have killed him. As it is, he is getting well fast, just as
you told me. His head is weak yet, though. And I took care not to excite
him. I didn’t breathe a word to him of my adventures among the
guerrillas. I allowed him to take it for granted that I had been sent
home under a flag of truce.”

“And he knows nothing of your forced marriage?”

“Not a word.”

“Nor of the battle with the guerrillas?”

“No.”

“But I should think he would see that in the newspapers.”

“They don’t allow him to look at one in the present state of his health.
But, Erminie, tell me about your protégés in the hospitals.”

“Nearly all my boys are doing very well, Elfie. Two of them only, will
die. One has his mother with him, and if mother and son were not both
such earnest Christians it would half break my heart to see them, for
she is an old woman and he is her youngest son and only surviving child.
The other boy is far from every friend he has in the world, and so he is
my own peculiar charge. He too is a child of God, and will meet death as
serenely as if he were eighty years old instead of eighteen. Just as I
left the hospital they told me that a train of ambulances had arrived,
bringing in a large number of wounded from some recent battle-field. So
we shall have a plenty of work on our hands, Elfie. I have four hampers
of lint sent me from the North. And directly after dinner we shall have
to take a carriage and carry it to the hospitals. It must be wanted
now.”

“Oh, Heaven help us, Erminie! We not only ‘sup full of horrors,’ but it
seems to me we rise, breakfast, dine, sup and sleep full of horrors, in
these war times. I don’t know how you _can_ stand it, Erminie. Has it
hardened or strengthened you?”

“Strengthened me, I hope, dearest,” answered Miss Rosenthal, as she
arose from the table.

Bob was despatched to the livery stable where Erminie kept her little
carriage and horse, And Catherine was sent up into the attic to the
linen room to fetch down the hampers of lint.

And so, when Erminie and Elfie came down ready dressed to go out, they
found the carriage at the door and the hampers stowed within it, and old
Bob on the coachman’s box.

“Drive to the hospital, Robert,” said Miss Rosenthal. And the horse
started.

A drive of some twenty minutes brought them to the front of the
extensive buildings.

“I declare, it looks like a funeral here,” said Elfie, noticing the
crowd of ambulances that were drawn up before the hospital.

But when the two girls alighted and Elfie had a nearer view and saw
wounded men piled like slaughtered cattle in those ambulances, and
bleeding men carried up the steps of the hospital; and when they entered
the building and she found the atmosphere pervaded with the scent of
fresh blood, and the staircase slippery with gore, she could restrain
herself no longer, but screamed and hid her face against Erminie’s black
robe.

“Elfie! Elfie! if you cannot command your feelings, my dear, you must
return to the carriage. You can do no good here unless you are calm and
strong,” whispered Erminie.

“Oh, but I never saw anything so horrible! It is like human shambles,
and it turns me sick. I have been here many, many times, but never saw
anything like this!” shuddered Elfie.

“Because you have never before happened to be here when they were
bringing in the recently wounded. You had better go back to the
carriage, Elfie.”

“No, no: pray let me go on with you. I will not give way again, indeed I
will not,” said Elfie, lifting her face.

And she kept her promise, although there passed her at that moment two
soldiers, bearing between them a ghastly burden—a man with a livid face,
and a bandaged head crimsoned with blood.

Old Bob, with a hamper of lint under each arm, followed the two young
ladies.

Erminie led the way up the first flight of stairs to the first floor,
and turned at once to the clothing room attached to that ward, and under
the charge of a Sister of Mercy.

It was a room furnished all around with shelves and drawers like a dry
goods store, and filled with ready made under clothing, dressing gowns,
bed linen and napery.

A mild-eyed, black-robed young sister arose to receive the visitor.

“I have brought you a fresh supply of lint, Sister Agnes,” said Erminie.

“Ah, yes; we are very glad to have it; it is very much wanted. We had
not near enough for the fresh cases we have received to-day.”

“From what battle-field do these come, Sister, do you know?”

“I don’t. Some of them came up by the steamboats. So I suppose there has
been another battle somewhere down the river. And some of them, I know,
came by railroad from the valley, where there has been a fight with the
guerrillas.”

“Oh!” said Erminie.

And then as time was too precious to be spent in talking, she took up
the large basket of oranges she had brought, and bowing adieu to this
“mistress of the robes,” she passed down the corridor, attended by
Elfie, and followed by Bob, who had been back to the carriage, and had
returned with a large basket of jellies and fruits.

“I visited one-half the wards this morning, and I must look into the
others this afternoon,” said Erminie, as she turned to the right and
opened a door leading into a long room, furnished with a double row of
little white beds, on most of which lay wounded men.

Smiles of glad welcome greeted this young angel visitant as soon as she
appeared.

“Here, Elfie. You take this basket of oranges, dear, and go down one row
of beds while I go down the other. And give each man one. Sister Frances
says that the men in this ward may all eat fruit,” said Erminie.

Elfie took the basket of oranges, and went down the row of beds as she
was bid, pausing at each to speak a kind and cheering word, and to give
an orange.

At length she reached the very last little bed in the corner, and
without looking at its occupant, she said:

“Well, you are the last, but you will not be the worst served, soldier.
Here is the very finest orange in the whole lot. Just as if I had saved
it on purpose for you. I hope it will refresh you. And—I hope you are
not badly wounded.”

“Elfie!” in a feeble voice exclaimed the wounded man.

“Great Heaven!” cried the girl, starting, and nearly dropping her basket
of oranges.

She stood beside the bed of Albert Goldsborough.

“Elfie, didn’t you know me?” he sadly and faintly inquired.

“No. I was picking out the biggest orange for the man who had to wait
the longest, and so I didn’t look at you, and didn’t know you. You might
have been sure of that. And now that I _do_ know you, I take back all I
said and all I gave. Hand me that orange. I have nothing for you.”

“Not even forgiveness, Elfie?” he sighed, as he restored the fruit.

“Nothing,” she answered grimly, turning from him and walking back.

The hospital beds were very narrow and very near together. The wounded
soldier that occupied the one next to Albert Goldsborough, heard and saw
all that had passed between him and Elfie.

Now turning painfully on his side, he stretched out his hand towards
Goldsborough and said:

“Here, Reb., take half my orange. Do now—you’re welcome to it. A Reb.
boy gave me half his bread and water while we lay together on the
battle-field before I was brought here; and I haven’t forgot that yet!
Take half my orange, Reb., or if you’re thirsty take the whole.”

Albert Goldsborough smiled and shook his head, saying: “I thank you, but
cannot take it. The lady who gave it would not like the transfer.”

Elfie heard all this and felt ashamed. She stopped short and burst into
tears. She was almost hysterical with contradictory emotions. But she
knew it would never do to make a scene in the ward of a hospital.

“The noble soldiers! _they_ cherish no feelings of bitter malignity
against our brave foes. It is only we, miserable, mean, little
non-combatants, who never risked our lives in the cause, who are as
venemous as reptiles! I will follow the example of our dear Union boy
there,” thought Elfie, as she hurried to the side of the young soldier
of whom she had spoken, and said, with emotion:

“You are better than I am! You are a brave, good, generous fellow, and I
hope I shall know more of you.”

The young soldier smiled and said, a little obscurely:

“You see, Miss, we must save the Union at any cost; but we don’t _all_
hate each other for all that.”

“No,” replied Elfie, humbly. And she passed on to Goldsborough’s bed and
said:

“Albert, I didn’t mean it—indeed I didn’t! Take the orange again,
dear—do! It isn’t you that I am angry with. It is treason. And my
feelings are so contradictory—pull so violently opposite ways—that I
feel as if my very soul was being drawn asunder by wild horses! Oh, if
you had been true to your country! Oh, if you had _only_ been true!” she
exclaimed, dropping on her knees and hiding her face on the edge of his
bed while she sobbed convulsively.

She felt his hand laid softly on her head, and presently afterwards she
heard him groan—a low, deep, irrepressible groan, that seemed to have
been wrung from him by extreme agony.

Elfie lifted her tearful face and took his hand in hers. That hand was
burning with fever.

“Are you wounded, Albert? Are you wounded badly? Tell me, dear.”

“Yes, Elfie, badly.”

“I knew that you were taken prisoner; but I had no idea that you were
hurt until I saw you here. How did it happen? Tell me all about it,
dear, unless it troubles you to talk. If it does, don’t speak.”

“It relieves me to talk to you, Elfie. When I turned from the lost
battle-field, it was to hurry to the spot where I left you to provide
for your safety. But I was pursued; and when I was about half way across
the plain, between the hill and the grove, a minie ball from a
sharpshooter struck my leg above the knee and shattered the bone—”

“Oh! my dear—”

—“Almost at the same time I saw a troop of horse galloping from the
opposite direction. In a moment, Elfie, I was surrounded and captured.
And they took me at once to Colonel Rosenthal. But, Elfie, as I sat
there in my saddle before him, my limb hung, a shattered, useless,
helpless mass beside my horse’s flank. I did not speak as I handed him
my sword. I was very glad not to be spoken to; for if I had been obliged
to open my compressed lips to answer I should have groaned in agony. And
I didn’t want my enemy to hear me do that.”

“Oh, Albert, I am sorry! I am so sorry! Is it very painful now, dear?
Have they dressed it well?”

“They have dressed it very well, Elfie; and they are trying to save it;
but it is so very painful now that I doubt if they can do so.”

“Oh, Albert, there is no danger of your losing your limb!”

“We shall know by to-morrow morning whether we can save it or not. But,
Elfie, I am not so anxious to save my limb as I am to obtain your
forgiveness for the great wrong that I did you,” he said.

“Oh! Albert, dear, don’t talk of that. It is past; and don’t you see,
dear, that I am friends with you?”

“Thanks, Elfie—thanks! You should understand, Elfie, that farce of a
marriage, with the license, and ring, and parson, and prayer-book, all
regular, was yet of no sort of value in law, unless it should be
ratified by your consent,” he said.

“I know—I know, Albert. But do not let us talk of such exciting things.
Your fever is rising, and—here comes Erminie.”

Miss Rosenthal had not passed down her side of the ward as quickly as
Elfie had passed down hers. Erminie’s walk was more like that of a
physician in charge. She was familiar there. She had to stop by the side
of every bed, and hold a conversation with the patient or a consultation
with the nurse. And so her progress was slow.

Now, however, having got to the end of her row of beds, she approached
her friend, and saw the new patient.

“Albert Goldsborough! is it possible!” she exclaimed, in
surprise—surprise immediately suppressed by her habitual caution as a
hospital visitor.

“Yes, Miss Rosenthal, I am here,” he answered.

“I am very, very sorry to see you lying thus,” said Erminie, taking his
hand, and laying her finger upon his pulse. “You are feverish, and must
not give me a word of explanation yet. Elfie, my dear, your presence is
no sedative just now,” she added, turning to the weeping girl; “so you
may go down. Inquire your way to the office of the surgeon in charge,
and ask him, in my name, to send one of his assistants here; for here is
a patient who needs immediate attention.”

Elfie arose; but, before leaving the spot, stooped over the wounded man
and kissed his forehead, murmuring:

“Good-bye, Albert. If you ever doubted my reconciliation to you, believe
it now.”

“Thanks, dear Elfie! You will come again?” he said, holding her hand and
detaining her.

“Yes, I will come as often and stay as long as they will let me,” she
sobbed.

“Now go, Elfie dear. Go at once. He is suffering extremely for want of
attention; and his wound must be looked to immediately,” urged Erminie.

Elfie sat her basket of oranges within Goldsborough’s reach and pointed
imploringly to it, and she had the comfort of seeing him smile, and take
one and put it to his lips, before she left the ward.

In a very few minutes one of the young assistant surgeons came up in
answer to Miss Rosenthal’s summons, and stood beside the bed of the
intensely suffering man.

“Yes, Miss Rosenthal, his wound must be looked to immediately,” said the
young man.

And Erminie got up to go.

“Good-bye, Colonel Goldsborough. I will see you again to-morrow, when I
hope you will be better,” she said, gently.

“Good-bye, Miss Rosenthal; and a thousand earnest thanks.”

When Erminie had entered the carriage, and had given her order to the
coachman to drive to the Emory Hospital, and when they were once more on
their way, she turned to her silent companion and said:

“Elfie, my dear, you must be very careful what you do, unless you would
fetter your whole life with that forced marriage. As it stands now,
without your consent it is not binding on you. With your consent it
becomes indissoluble.”

“I have not consented,” said Elfie.

“My dear, not in words, perhaps; but actions speak louder than words.
There is such a thing as constructive consent. Your manner may be so
construed, Elfie, as to forge you fetters that you cannot break in all
your life. I speak in warning, to save your future from misery, my
dear.”

“Oh, Erminie! would you have had me act otherwise than I did to the
wounded, perhaps dying man? Oh, Erminie! I tried—I did indeed—I tried to
be firm and hard and cruel, but I could not! I could not! And when I saw
his face blanched, and his eyes drawn in, and his lips wrung with the
agony he was trying to bear in silence, I—I could—couldn’t be unkind to
him!” wept Elfie, burying her face in Erminie’s mantle.

“Nor would I have you be unkind, Elfie, my dear,” said Miss Rosenthal,
caressing her. “Be as kind as you please. Do everything for him that
Christian love inspires. Only take care that you give him no hold upon
your future life.”

“Oh, Erminie! Erminie! I never had much self-control! And since my soul
has been so torn between my old love and my hatred of treason, I have
less! Oh, Erminie, I cannot say to myself that I will go ‘thus far and
no farther!’”

“Then I do not understand you, love. I only wished to caution you, that
you should not, through inadvertence, forge chains for yourself that it
would gall you to wear.”

“Oh, Erminie! no! you don’t understand me! How should you, when I don’t
understand myself?—When I saw _him_ at the head of his band; strong,
rampant, insolent; in arms against the government; doing his arrogant
will with everybody, and with myself among the rest. I _hated_ him, or I
thought I did! And I prayed that he might come to _this_, and come to
_worse_! And now, when I see him stretched, broken, helpless, and
writhing in agony in that bed, as if it was a rack, I feel as if my
cruel prayers had been granted, and I had brought him to it!” she wept.

“That is morbid, Elfie. Whatever brought Colonel Goldsborough a wounded
prisoner to our hospital it was not your prayers! For we know that
heaven never hears the prayers for vengeance. But one word, Elfie. If
Colonel Goldsborough rises from his bed again, do you mean to ratify
with your consent that forced marriage?”

“_If_ he rises! Oh, Erminie! you have looked upon too many wounded men
not to know when you see the face of a dying one! Oh, Erminie! you must
see that he will never, never rise from that bed!” said Elfie, breaking
into fresh sobs.

“No, no, Elfie, I see no such thing; that ghastly look of agony is by no
means the look of death, which is usually very peaceful. No, Elfie,
Colonel Goldsborough may possibly lose his leg; but he has a very fine
constitution. And I see no earthly reason why he should lose his life.
It is in anticipation of his recovery that I warn you not to allow your
compassion for him in his present condition to compromise your future
relations with him. But here we are at the Emory,” said Miss Rosenthal,
as the carriage drew up before the gates of the hospital.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                        POOR ELFIE’S HONEYMOON.

         Can this be death? Then what is life, or death?
         “Speak!” But he spoke not. “Wake!” But still he slept:
         But yesterday and who had mightier breath?
         A thousand warriors by his word were kept
         In awe. He said, as the centurian saith—
         “Go,” and he goeth; “Come,” and he steppeth forth.
         The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb,
         And now naught left him but the muffled drum.—BYRON.


The next morning it was Elfie who was all impatience to get off to the
hospitals. On nearly all former occasions when Elfie was to be her
companion in her rounds among the sick and wounded soldiers, Erminie had
been very much “tried” by her friend’s dilatory habits. But this morning
Elfie was dressed and had the carriage at the door long before Erminie
had got through her domestic duties of the forenoon. And so Elfie spent
the time in walking impatiently up and down the hall, until at length
Erminie made her appearance in bonnet and shawl.

“You will go to the hospital first?” inquired Elfie, anxiously, thinking
and speaking as if the hospital in which Albert Goldsborough lay were
the only one in the city.

“Yes, dear; for your sake I will go to ‘the’ hospital first. After which
we will visit the others. But, Elfie, dear, excuse me if I repeat my
warning of yesterday. Be as kind as you please; but take care not to
compromise yourself.”

“Now, Erminie, when did I ever take care of myself, in any way? You
might as well ask a fish to fly. I cannot say to my heart, ‘thus far—no
farther.’ I never could. Besides, Erminie, his livid, agonized face has
haunted me all the night through. Don’t say any more to me, please. I
don’t want to lose my self-possession again this morning. I don’t want
to go to the hospital with red eyes,” said Elfie.

“Well, my dear, I will say no more—but this: Since you cannot take care
of yourself, I pray Heaven to take care of you,” said Miss Rosenthal.

They entered the carriage and were rapidly driven to the hospital.

Arrived there, they found all signs of yesterday’s horrors effaced. The
wounded had been all properly cared for, and the halls, stairs and
lobbies had been washed.

Erminie had her usual short interview with the surgeon in charge, and
then passed up, accompanied by Elfie, to the wards on the second floor.
Elfie went at once to the ward in which Albert Goldsborough had been
placed. She passed hastily between the two long lines of little beds,
until she came to the end, when she stopped and uttered a
half-suppressed cry.

Albert Goldsborough’s bed was empty.

She turned her wild dilated eyes, full of the question her lips could
not utter, towards the Union soldier who occupied the next bed.

“Yes, poor fellow!” said the soldier, “they’ve taken him to the
operating room.”

“‘The operating room!’” gasped Elfie, with suspended breath.

“Yes, Miss.”

“But—why have they taken him there?” she found power at last to ask.

“To amputate his leg, poor fellow!”

“‘To amputate his leg!’” exclaimed Elfie, again echoing the soldier’s
words.

“Yes, Miss, it was the only way of saving his life, it seems. This
morning when the assistant surgeon looked at his wound, he sent
immediately for the surgeon in charge, and they both examined it
together and decided that the leg must be taken off at once, if the
man’s life was to be saved.

Elfie, unable to stand, sank pale and trembling down upon Albert
Goldsborough’s empty bed, and sitting there, with clasped hands and
strained eyes, waited for the soldier’s farther words.

“The poor fellow objected very much; said that his leg had ceased to
give any pain at all; that it was quite easy; and, except for weakness,
he never felt better in his life; he had had the best night’s rest he
had ever enjoyed; his leg hadn’t troubled him once; and he had waked up
this morning quite refreshed though rather feeble.”

“Then why did they persist in the operation?” cried Elfie.

“To save his life, Miss, as they explained to him. His freedom from pain
was, under the circumstances, the worst possible symptom. Mortification
had commenced in the wound and was rapidly extending upward, and it
became necessary to amputate the limb without delay.”

“And then he consented?” wept Elfie.

“Yes, Miss.”

“How long was that ago?”

“They removed him about ten minutes before you entered the ward, Miss.”

“So they are even now at their dreadful work! They have him even now
stretched upon the ghastly operating board, and are torturing his nerves
and flesh with knife and saw!” shuddered Elfie. “Oh, Albert! oh, my
love, my love, if I could bear it for you!”

And the loyal Union girl, who had discarded and defied her rebel lover
in the days of his pride and his power, and who had believed her own
words when she told him that the one burning aspiration of her heart was
to see him hanged for his treason, now burst into a convulsion of sobs,
and wept over his sufferings the sorest tears she had ever shed in her
life.

“Don’t distress yourself so much, Miss. He will not feel it. He will
know nothing after he is stretched upon the operating board until it is
all over. They are going to give him chloroform,” said the young
soldier, trying to comfort the weeping woman.

Elfie struggled to regain her self-command. She recollected with
compunction that the hospital ward was not the place to indulge in the
exhibition of strong emotions.

“Listen, Miss,” said the soldier boy—“I know he will not feel it. See,
Miss—I had my leg taken off two weeks ago, and I never felt it; and just
look how well I’m getting over it.”

There was an instantaneous sympathy in all the words and looks and
actions of the impulsive girl.

“You had your leg taken off! And you are so quiet and patient and
cheerful under it all! Oh, my poor boy, I didn’t know it! I didn’t,
indeed, my poor child, or I wouldn’t have been so indifferent to you!”
she said, speaking to this young soldier, near her own age, as if he had
been her son, or her little brother; and kneeling down by his bed to
bring her compassionate face closer to his own.

“It is nothing near so bad as you seem to think, Miss. Bless you! see
how many have lost both legs, or both arms, or one of each. And see how
many have lost their lives! I consider myself one of the lucky ones,
Miss. Only I don’t dare to write and tell mother yet. I don’t know that
I shall ever tell her. What would be the use? I think I shall wait and
not go home until I get the bran new patent leg Uncle Sam is going to
give me; and then I shall walk in on mother, in a new pair of boots, and
she will never know what is in them, or that one of my limbs has gone to
the grave before me.”

“Are you your mother’s only son?” inquired Elfie, still kneeling by the
bed.

“Oh, no, Miss,” answered the boy, smiling; “and neither is she a widow.
Mother has a husband and seven sons in the war. I am only her youngest.
But, bless you, Miss, she loves us all as if each was her only one.”

“But if her husband and all her sons are in the war, who is at home with
her?” inquired Elfie, not, however, forgetting the man on the table in
the operating room, even while feeling much interest in the new object
of her sympathy.

“Our sister is at home with mother. And I really do believe,” added the
boy, smiling archly, “that nothing but their crinoline keeps them out of
the army!”

“Nothing but our crinoline, if that is to stand for our sex, keeps
thousands of us out of the army!” said Elfie.

At that moment the door at this end of the ward opened, and a little
bustle ensued.

Elfie arose from her position, and held her breath in awe.

Through the door a small procession like a funeral train entered the
ward.

Four men bore between them a bier on which was spread a narrow mattress,
with the motionless form of a man extended at full length on it, and
covered with a white sheet, and altogether looking like a dead body.

Behind the bier walked the assistant surgeon.

This procession was simply that of the hospital nurses bringing in the
mutilated man, still in the deep swoon of chloroform, and under the
personal direction of the doctor.

But as they approached, Elfie turned deadly pale and faint, and gasped
forth the inquiry:

“Is he gone? Oh, is he gone? Has he died under that dreadful operation?”

“Oh, no, Miss,” said the young soldier, kindly; “he is only unconscious.
They will recover him as soon as they get him on the cot again.”

Elfie caught her breath and clasped her hands, and struggled for
composure.

The soldier nurses lifted the mattress, with its nearly lifeless burden,
and laid it on the cot, and then turned down the sheet, and revealed the
face of Albert Goldsborough, livid, but quiet, like the faces of those
who have recently fallen asleep in death.

Elfie, holding her hands upon her heart, drew near, and took courage to
ask the assistant surgeon:

“Doctor, oh, Doctor, how did he bear the operation? Will he survive it?
Oh, will he?”

The surgeon turned, and seeing the anxious and pleading face, guessed at
once that the inquirer was “something” to the sufferer, and answered
perhaps more kindly than truly:

“Yes, Miss, we hope he will do well. You are a friend or relative of
this man?”

“Dear me, Doctor, if you were not a very recent arrival here, you would
know me as well as you know the dispensary. I have been in the habit of
coming here daily, with little intermission, for the last three years,”
said Elfie, rather impatiently evading the doctor’s question.

“I have been here only for the last fortnight,” he replied.

“Oh, I was away during that time. But I was here yesterday with Miss
Rosenthal, and I brought you her message to come to this very patient.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. But now my dear young lady,” said the surgeon, who
had not once taken his finger from the pulse of the man on the cot,
since he had been laid there, “now my patient shows signs of recovery,
and he must positively see no one near him but his physician and nurse.
I must beg you to retire.”

“But, Doctor, I—I am his friend,” said Elfie, at length driven to this
confession.

“If you were his mother or his sister, his wife or his sweetheart, I
could not let you see him, or rather, I could not let him see you, when
he wakes,” said the surgeon, firmly, though kindly.

“Yes, Elfie, dear, you must let me take you away. Any sudden shock might
be fatal to him when he wakes,” said Erminie, who had come unperceived
to her side.

Elfie turned away, with difficulty restraining her sobs. She paused a
moment by the side of her new acquaintance on the next cot.

“Good-bye, young soldier,” she said. “I shall see you again to-morrow.
And I hope we shall know you better. You are one of the heroes of this
war. And I feel sure that your past courage in the field equalled your
present fortitude in the hospital.”

The boy blushed and smiled to hear such warm praises from such pretty
lips, and he watched Elfie as long as she remained visible in the ward.

As soon as the two girls were in the little carriage again, Elfie
suddenly seized Erminie and hysterically exclaimed:

“Oh, Erminie! Oh, Erminie! You saw him! You saw how livid and sunken he
looked!”

“Yes, dear, I saw him.”

“Oh, Erminie! you have been tending the sick and wounded in the
hospitals for nearly four years, and you have had a great deal of
experience. You know almost as much as the head surgeon himself, and a
great deal more than these young under graduates, who take off a man’s
limb so deftly. And you saw how he looked. Will he live? Will he live?”

“I hope and trust so, my dear,” said Miss Rosenthal gently.

“When people say they hope and trust, they always mean they don’t
believe,” cried Elfie, wringing her hands.

Miss Rosenthal tried to turn the conversation.

“You forgot to keep your appointment with your little champion
yesterday, Elfie.”

“I had forgotten the very existence of little Mim,” sobbed Elfie.

“Shall I tell the coachman to set you down there? It is directly on our
way to the Emory Hospital.”

“No, tell him to drive me first to the nearest bookseller’s, and then to
the next fruit shop. I mustn’t go empty-handed when I do go,” said
Elfie, remorsefully.

Miss Rosenthal gave the proper directions, the coachman drove to the
designated places, and Elfie made her purchases, and in due time was set
down at the gate of little Mim’s cottage.

“Call and pick me up as you come back from the Emory, Erminie,” said
Elfie, as she passed through the gate.

“Certainly,” smiled Miss Rosenthal as she entered the carriage, which
immediately drove off.

Elfie was well received by the little old Misses Mim—all the better
received because she had missed her appointment with them on the day
before. It argued well for them they thought that she was not so over
fond of Jim’s society, and perhaps she was not so over anxious to marry
him after all, they said, nodding their heads together.

Little Mim himself welcomed his visitor with an effusion of gratitude.
He stopped her apologies with his thanks, and accepted her books, and
her fruit, and her company with delight.

Elfie sat two hours with him; but she refrained from mentioning the
presence of Albert Goldsborough in the hospital. She refrained from two
reasons: the fear of exciting the injured man, and the dread of hearing
him abuse one who was now only the object of her compassion, her
anxiety, and her affection.

It was late in the afternoon when Miss Rosenthal called in the carriage,
paid little Mim a short visit, and then took Elfie home.

The next morning Elfie was all feverish impatience to get to the
hospital where Goldsborough lay.

And Erminie so strongly sympathized with her in her anxiety that she
despatched her domestic affairs in great haste, and was seated beside
Elfie in the little carriage an hour earlier than usual.

They drove rapidly to the hospital, and while Miss Rosenthal was holding
a consultation with the sister in charge of the clothing room, Elfie
hurried to the second floor and entered the ward where her patient lay.

Merely bowing to the nurses in attendance, she passed swiftly up between
the rows of beds, but paused suddenly beside that which sustained the
wasted form of her lover, who seemed to be sleeping, or swooning; she
could not tell which.

A great change had passed over the face and form of Albert Goldsborough
since the day before. His face was more livid and sunken then ever;
black shadows had gathered in the hollows of his eyes, and temples, and
cheeks, and around his pallid lips, which, drawn tightly apart showed
the dry, glistening teeth between them. His eyes were half open and half
opaque like the eyes of the dying. His shrunken form beneath the closely
clinging counterpane, revealed the rapid wasting of flesh and muscle
that had gone on even in the last few hours.

As soon as Elfie’s eyes fell upon him she suppressed the scream that
rose to her mouth, and turned in agonized inquiry to her friend on the
next cot.

“Oh, what has happened since last night?” she faltered.

“I am very sorry to tell you, Miss, but for some reason or other the
stump broke out bleeding in the night, and there was a very exhausting
hemorrhage before it could be stopped again.”

“And—is there—great danger?” faintly inquired Elfie, sinking upon the
chair that stood between the two beds.

“Well—no, Miss, we all hope not, if it doesn’t break out again,”
answered the young soldier, hesitatingly.

“But—can it break out again? Is it likely do so?” anxiously inquired
Elfie, now gazing in distress upon the ghastly face of her lover, and
now turning appealingly to her new friend.

“Well—perhaps not, Miss,” said the young soldier, painfully suppressing
the truth to avoid wounding her.

Again Elfie’s gaze was fixed upon the fallen face of her lover, who
opened his eyes and recognized her with a wan smile.

“Thank you for coming, my love. I knew you would come to me. They told
me, when I asked for you, that you came yesterday, but that they could
not let you stay to see me. I knew that you would come again to-day,
Elfie,” he said, feebly holding out his hand to her.

“Oh! Albert, dear, my heart bleeds for you,” she cried, trying to keep
back her rising tears.

“You know my fate, Elfie?”

“Oh no, dear; none but the Omniscient can know that. But I feel sure, if
you will only keep quiet and not let—_that_ happen again, you will get
well. Come, Albert, I will not excite myself or you either. But I will
not leave you again, dear. I will stay with you until—until you get
well. See!” she said, drawing from her pocket the wedding ring that she
had once indignantly torn from her finger, but still refrained from
destroying. “See, I put on your ring—I put it on now of my own accord,
willingly, gladly, so that I may stay and nurse you! See!”

“Elfie—darling! stop! mind what you are about! Do not compromise
yourself! I _may_ live!” said the almost dying man, laying his feeble
hand on hers.

“Heaven grant that you may! But now see!” she said, slipping the ring
firmly upon her finger, and adding—“I will never leave you more, Albert,
never, never.”

“Ah, my poor girl! I always knew you loved your ‘traitor,’ although you
hated his treason!” exclaimed Goldsborough, feebly raising the ringed
hand, and pressing it to his lips.

At that moment the surgeon, in making his rounds, came up to
Goldsborough’s bed. At a short distance he was followed by Miss
Rosenthal and one of the nurses in close consultation.

While the surgeon was feeling the pulse of his patient, Elfie was
straining her ears to catch the words of the conversation between Miss
Rosenthal and the nurse. At length, as they drew nearer, she heard the
latter say:

“No, Miss, the surgeon seems to think there is no hope in the world for
his life! His death is but the question of a few days or hours.”

Elfie knew that the hospital nurse was speaking of Albert Goldsborough,
and though, from his appearance, she might have been prepared, and
perhaps was prepared, to hear such a sentence, yet for an instant her
senses reeled and she caught the back of the chair for support.

Then with an effort she recovered her self-control, and turned her eyes
on the face of the assistant surgeon, who was still examining his
patient, and tried to read in its expression some reversal of the
nurse’s sentence.

But the surgeon’s face was quite impassible.

Presently, however, he looked up and addressed Elfie.

“Young lady, I do not wish to be discourteous,” he said, very gently,
“but my patient’s condition demands the strictest quiet, and will not
admit of his seeing visitors. Therefore, I must request you to retire.”

For all answer, Elfie deliberately arose and took off her gloves,
mantle, and bonnet, and laid them on the empty chair. And then, while
the surgeon was staring at her as if to see what she would do next, she
answered firmly:

“No, doctor, I cannot leave him. I must remain with him until—until he
leaves the hospital.”

“But, my dear young lady—”

“Say no more, doctor. I _will_ not leave him. My place is by his side. I
am his wife.”

And so saying, she came to the side of the cot and placed her hand in
that of the dying man, who closed his wan fingers over it, and raised
his eyes, full of unspeakable love, to her pitying face.

In the utmost perplexity, the surgeon turned towards Miss Rosenthal for
an explanation.

“Yes, doctor,” said Erminie, gravely and sweetly, “she has a right to
stay with him. She is his wife.”




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                “THE REBEL RIDES ON HIS RAIDS NO MORE.”

                Do not cheat her heart and tell her,
                  “Grief will pass away,
                Hope for fairer times in future,
                  And forget to-day”—
                Tell her, if you will, that sorrow
                  Need not come in vain;
                Tell her that the lesson taught her
                  Far outweighs the pain.—A. A. PROCTOR.


So Elfie was permitted to remain in the ward and nurse her husband.
There was no provision in the hospital for extra nurses, and every woman
who came to attend the sick bed of husband, son or brother, had to take
the chance of catching a wink of sleep or a mite of food or drop of
drink as best she could.

As Erminie was about to take leave of her friend, she stooped and
whispered:

“You do well to remain, dear Elfie, but there are no accommodations for
you here, so I will send Bob back with such comforts as I think you will
be most likely to need, and I will also speak to Sister Agnes to let you
have the use of her dormitory sometimes, and I hope your health will not
suffer.”

“Thanks! a thousand heartfelt thanks, dear Erminie, for all your
kindness, and above all, for the greatest kindness of not blaming me for
this,” said Elfie.

“My poor girl, I never shall dream of blaming you now,” murmured Miss
Rosenthal, turning away to conceal her emotion.

While they had been speaking, Albert Goldsborough, with his hand clasped
in Elfie’s, had dropped into one of those light and fitful slumbers that
attend the dying.

When Erminie had left her, Elfie remained holding the hand of the
sinking man until he awoke with a start, and looking up at her with a
smile, murmured faintly:

“Yes, you are there. It is no dream. You are there.”

“Yes, I am here, never to leave you again, Albert.”

“But let me keep hold of your hand, so that if I drop asleep again, I
may know, even in my dreams, that I have you.”

She gave him both her hands, caressing his, and looking on him with
unspeakable tenderness.

“Elfie, my darling,” he murmured,—“when I look at you so, and think how
I wronged you, it almost breaks my heart! I am sorry! I am sorry!”

“Albert, dear, don’t look so! don’t speak so! You have done _me_ no
wrong at all—none, none, I say. But if—if——”

“If what, Elfie?”

“Oh! if I could only hear you say—say——”

“Say what, my darling girl?”

“Say that—that you are sorry—sorry for taking up arms against your
native land!” sobbed Elfie.

With a spasm of pain Goldsborough turned his face to the wall.

“Oh, Albert! I would give my life this day to hear you say that, and say
it truly! Heaven knows I would! I would! my own love!” cried Elfie,
sobbing as if her heart would burst; yet knowing that such indulgence of
emotion was wrong in herself and injurious to the wounded man, and
trying hard to compose herself.

With difficulty Goldsborough turned his head and shoulders, the half of
his body that he could move, around towards her and faced her again.

“Elfie,” he said, sadly and frankly, “if I were conscious of having done
wrong, I should be sorry for it now, or never. ‘A death-bed’s a detector
of the heart,’ ’tis said. If the course you blame so bitterly had been a
career of crime, I should know it now, if ever, and I should atone for
it by a death-bed repentance. And you, and all who think with you, would
unite in approving and consoling the penitent. But when I speak my next
words, Elfie, you and yours may harden your hearts against me. I cannot
help that. For, Elfie, not to secure the good will of the people around
me—not even to secure your sweet presence, which is the only earthly
consolation I have now left in life—will I deceive myself, or you, or
them. Listen, Elfie, and then leave me if you must. Here lying in the
hospital, wounded and dying, and surrounded by the enemies of my
country, and in danger of losing your love, I tell you I am _not_ sorry
for what I have done. I do _not_ repent the course I have pursued. I
know now, as I knew then, that I was and am right. There, Elfie! That is
the faith in which I shall live and die. You, Elfie, think differently.
And I do not blame you. The freedom of opinion that I claim for myself I
give to all others. Now then, my dearest, if your conscience commands
you to leave me, leave me. And if you go, I shall not reproach you, even
in my thoughts. I shall thank you from the bottom of my heart for all
past kindness; I shall love you as long as I live, and I shall bless you
with my dying breath. Now go, my beloved, if indeed you must.”

“Oh, Albert!” exclaimed Elfie, struggling to suppress her tears, “you
know I will never leave you while you live! never, Albert, never! I
cannot convert you, but I cannot help loving you!” she added, stooping
and pressing her lips to his.

“My poor, dear girl, I wish we could think alike!” he murmured, feebly
caressing her head, that lay so near his bosom.

“And now let us talk no more of this horrible war. Let us forget for a
while the madness of the rebellion,” said Elfie.

“Not just yet, my Elfie. I must justify myself in your eyes, for your
sake, if possible,” he murmured.

“Oh! do not—do not! Oh! say no more. You are already too much excited. I
was very wrong to have started the subject. I have raised your fever;
and the doctor would serve me right to turn me out of the hospital,”
said Elfie.

“My dear girl, you have not excited me. Don’t you see that I am past all
that, Elfie? Besides, I _must_ say more in self-justification. Only to
_you_, Elfie. I would not stoop to justify myself to another,” he
proudly added.

“Go on, then, but don’t—don’t fatigue yourself.”

“Listen, then, my darling girl: You and I are diametrically opposed to
each other on the subject of this civil war, are we not?”

“Yes, yes; more’s the pity.”

“So say I, ‘More’s the pity.’ And yet, diametrically opposed as we are,
we are each of us true to our firmest convictions of duty, are we not?”

“I truly believe so,” admitted Elfie.

“And so far each of us is right. We are both right in adhering to what
we conscientiously believe to be our duty.”

Elfie was puzzled and silenced. Goldsborough went on.

“We should either of us be very wrong to give up our honest convictions
of duty merely to please the other.”

Elfie was still perplexed and dumb-foundered.

“Listen, my darling. In the old days of intolerance, _religious_
persecution was the great madness. The one Christian sect that happened
to be dominant persecuted all other Christian sects, and for the glory
of God, roasted them alive; and the other Christian sects, still for the
glory of God submitted to be roasted, and hoped for the crown of
martyrdom. But by and by the tables would be turned, and the dominant
sect would be down and some other sect would be up and the persecutors
would become the persecuted, and the roasters the roasted. And again,
whatever was done or suffered on either hand was for the sake of
conscience and for the glory of God. Now, Elfie, in the face of such
facts as history gives, when men so honestly differed in such mighty
issues that they were ready to sacrifice each other and to yield up
their own lives, each in defence of his own peculiar convictions, what
have you to say?”

“Why, that there are many wrong ways and but one right one, if we could
only find it,” said Elfie.

“Yes, if we could only find it,” smiled Goldsborough; “but in the
difficulty each must take the way he thinks to be the right way; and to
him it _will_ be the right way. Elfie, my darling, the days of
intolerance are passing away. Religious intolerance is a thing of the
past. Political intolerance and social intolerance will follow it into
oblivion. Meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile, dear Albert, you are talking too much. Do not think it
necessary to justify yourself to me. Let me stop all with this—” she
said, stooping and pressing her lips to his. “I love you, Albert, I love
you—I love you; that is the one thing I am surest of now. There, close
your eyes and try to sleep, with my hand in yours, and my face near
yours,” she murmured, dropping her head on the edge of his pillow.

He smiled, and with one hand clasped in hers, and the other laid lightly
among the black tresses of her bended head, he closed his eyes, and
tried to rest.

He was in that state of physical decline when conversation is not
exciting but exhausting. He was very much exhausted, and he slept.

Even in that crowded ward they were, from their position, nearly
isolated. The cot was in the corner, with a window at each angle; and
their nearest neighbor was the young Union soldier who had lost his leg.
The boy, from a sense of politeness, had turned his back upon them, and
was occupying his attention with a newspaper.

Elfie’s patient slept, and Elfie never moved and scarcely breathed, lest
she should disturb him.

How long the days in the hospital seemed. People came and went. A low
hum of conversation prevailed.

Once Elfie was conscious that a consultation was going on by the bedside
of a patient half way down the row of beds on the opposite side of the
ward. And soon after she heard a little bustle of preparation, and she
saw a procession like a funeral train bearing that patient on his
mattress on a bier from the ward to the operating room.

The procession had to pass her to go out by the door at her end of the
ward. And as it went by, she knew that another victim was about to lose
a limb and, perhaps, his life also.

This victim never came back.

In an hour afterwards Elfie learned from the nurses that he had died
under the knife, and had been taken to the dead house.

The dinner hour for the patients came. And the beef tea, wine whey,
chicken broth, milk punch, boiled rice, calf’s foot jelly, and whatever
else had been ordered, or provided, was served around.

It was sometime before Albert Goldsborough awoke; but when he did a
choice was given him among all the delicacies furnished to the sick. He
had no appetite, but was consumed by a great thirst. So he asked only
for iced lemonade, and got it.

Elfie raised his head while he drank it.

“That will do, my dearest,” he said, drawing a deep breath of relief
when he had drained the glass. “Only keep me in a plenty of this, and I
shall do well. Cooling drink is the only material want I have left me,”
he added, smiling.

“You shall have a water cooler full of it set by the bed, so that I can
draw it ice cold from the spigot whenever you like,” said Elfie, as she
laid his head back on the pillow.

“But you, my darling! What provision is there here for your comfort? How
will you eat and drink? Where will you sleep?” he anxiously inquired.

“All right. Don’t distress yourself, Albert, Erminie will send me my
meals. And Sister Agnes will give me the use of her room, when I require
it,” answered Elfie.

Albert Goldsborough seemed very much refreshed by his long sleep and his
cool drink, and now he was inclined to talk a little more.

“Elfie,” he said, “if I die, my widow will be one of the wealthiest
women in Virginia.”

“Dear Albert, you are a great deal better. You are not going to die. And
if you were, I know very well that wealth would never console your widow
for your loss. But you will live, Albert. You will get over this and
live!”

“If I do live, Elfie, I will atone to you for all I have made you
suffer. If I die, I have the comfort of knowing that you will be very
rich in this world’s goods.”

“Pray—_pray_ don’t talk so, dear.”

“I must, Elfie! I must explain, while I can, my worldly position, that
you may understand it and know how to proceed in the event of my death.
Elfie, my uncle and aunt Goldsborough, and their unhappy daughter, being
all dead, and there being no other heirs, all the vast estates
appertaining to the elder branch of the Goldsborough family fall to me,
as heir-at-law. The mansion in Richmond, the villa on the sea-side, and
the plantation in the valley are all mine. The plantation house is in
ruins, I believe; but the land is there, of course. And the rest of the
property everywhere is intact; and, united to my own hereditary acres,
makes a vast estate.”

“As if I cared for that! Oh, Albert, I only care to see you get well,”
she murmured.

“And I will get well, to please you, if I can, Elfie. And as I said
before, if I live, I will devote my life to your happiness. If I die, I
will leave you the wealthiest widow in Virginia. For, Elfie, listen, my
dear—whichever party conquers, _you_ will be all right. If the
Confederacy triumphs, as the widow of a Confederate officer, you will
succeed to the half of my estate. If the Union triumphs, as the daughter
of a Union officer, and as an unquestionably loyal woman, you will still
be allowed your widow’s rights to the one-half of my estates, although
the other half may be confiscated by the conquerors.”

“Albert! Albert! if you _will_ talk so, I cannot help it, of course! but
you distress me very much,” wept Elfie.

“I have done, my dear girl. I will say no more. And although you could
not bear to hear my words just now, you will think of them in calmer
moments, and act on them in after days—or your father or friends will
for you. Give me your hand once more, beloved, and I will try to sleep
again.”

Elfie gave him her hand and dropped her head on the pillow beside him,
and again his exhausted frame sunk to rest.

On this occasion he slept longer than on the former one. And Elfie never
moved and scarcely breathed, until she felt a hand laid lightly on her
shoulder, and looking up saw Sister Agnes standing by her.

“Miss Rosenthal has sent your dinner, and also a box of necessaries,
which I have placed in my room. Will you come now?” whispered the
sister.

Elfie shook her head and pointed to the sleeping man, whose hand still
firmly clasped her own.

And just at that moment, as if the sleeper dreamed or divined that she
was asked to leave him, he started and closed his fingers upon hers with
a convulsive grip.

“You see?” whispered Elfie.

“I see. I will keep your dinner warm and come again after a while,” said
the sister, stealing softly away.

The hours crept slowly by and the afternoon waned towards evening.

At four o’clock the patients had their tea, but Albert did not awake.

At six o’clock the assistant surgeons in charge of the wards made their
rounds. These rounds were always attended with some little bustle, and
the bustle always awoke nervous sleepers. It awoke Goldsborough.

“Here still, my guardian angel,” he said, smiling gratefully on his
watcher.

“Here always, Albert. What will you have now? The others had their tea
two hours ago. You can have yours now, if you like.”

“No, nothing so warm as tea. A draught of that delicious lemonade. I am
so thirsty.”

Elfie filled a glass from a pitcher of iced lemonade that she kept at
hand, and then she lifted his head while he drank it.

“Ah, that is so refreshing,” he said, with a sigh of pleasure, as she
laid him gently back on his pillow.

At that moment the surgeon in charge and Sister Agnes came up together.

“Well, you are looking much better this afternoon. I think the presence
of this lady is a great restorative,” said the doctor, cheerfully
addressing Goldsborough.

“So great a restorative that it will save me if anything can,” smiled
Albert.

“Well now, we must look at your leg. And we must ask the lady to retire
while we do so.”

Elfie hesitated, until Albert turned to her and said:

“Yes, darling, go. You need to be relieved from duty here for a little
while, and now is your best opportunity. You shall return when they have
done.”

“Come with me,” said Sister Agnes.

And Elfie stooped and kissed her husband, and then arose and followed
the nurse.

“Oh, Sister Agnes,” said Elfie, when they had left the ward, “you have
experience; you can tell me; _don’t_ you think he is much better?”

“Yes, I certainly do,” replied the Sister of Mercy, glad to be able to
give the anxious young questioner some real encouragement.

“And—_don’t_ you think he will get well?” eagerly inquired Elfie.

“I think there are good grounds to hope so,” answered the sister: “there
is certainly a great change for the better in him since this morning.”

“Sister Agnes, is there any particular danger that may threaten him, and
can I guard against it in any way?”

“My dear, I will be frank with you. There is a possibility of another
hemorrhage from his wound. You can guard against that by keeping him
quiet and following the doctor’s directions in all matters.”

“Oh, I will be so careful,” said Elfie.

And by this time they had reached the little refectory used by Sister
Agnes and her companions, and where Elfie’s dinner awaited her. A simple
dinner of boiled chicken and mashed potatoes, rice pudding and green
tea.

“I added the green tea, my dear, to keep you awake. I suppose you will
want to watch to-night?”

“Oh, yes, yes! Many thanks for your kind thoughtfulness,” said Elfie,
earnestly.

When Elfie had finished her light repast, Sister Agnes took her to a
small sleeping room in the third story, containing two little white
beds, two little wash-stands and two chairs—and having no other
furniture.

“Sister Mary-Joseph and myself sleep here. That is my bed by the window.
I advise you to lie down on it and rest for an hour or two before you
return to your patient. He will be well taken care of during your
absence, never fear,” said Sister Agnes.

“You are very good, but I would rather go back, when I have bathed my
face and arranged my dress. Where is the box Miss Rosenthal sent me,
please?”

“Here it is,” said the sister, drawing a medium sized trunk from under
the bed.

The key was tied to one of the handles, and Elfie untied it and opened
the trunk. Erminie had sent her a soft gray merino wrapper, suitable for
nursing, a soft pair of cloth slippers, a change of clothing and a great
plenty of fresh pocket-handkerchiefs and towels.

Elfie dressed herself in these comfortable habiliments, and then
requested her guide to show her back to her ward.

“For I never could find the right way by myself, I am sure,” she said.

The sister complied with her request and attended her to the door of the
ward, where she left her.

A few steps within the room Elfie met the assistant surgeon, and stopped
him to put the same questions she had already put to the sister.

“He is much better, doctor, isn’t he? He will recover, won’t he?”

“We have good reason to hope so, Madam,” answered the surgeon.

“But I cannot get him to take any nourishment. He has no appetite; only
a great thirst, and he will take nothing except lemonade,” complained
Elfie.

“Then do not force nourishment upon him. Give him the drink he craves,”
said the surgeon hurrying past her to attend to his other business.

Elfie went down between the two rows of little white beds until she came
to the corner where Albert Goldsborough lay.

He was wide awake, and waiting for her. He seemed refreshed, and
cheerful.

“I have been looking for you, my darling. The doctor has given me an
opiate, and ordered me to go to sleep, as if one could go to sleep to
order! I could not do so without your hand in mine. Sit by my bed, dear
Elfie, and let me feel that you are there while I sink to rest,” he
said.

And Elfie took up her old position, with her hand clasped in his, and
her cheek on the edge of his pillow.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                               AT PEACE.

          Here lurks no treason here no envy swells,
          Here grows no damned grudges; here are no storms.
          No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.—SHAKSPEARE.


During Elfie’s absence from the ward all the sick and wounded had been
made as comfortable as circumstances would permit for the night. The
greater number of them had been quieted by opium. And even those who
could not sleep lay in benign repose, under the influence of that
blessed but much abused “gift of God.” Certainly the great good of opium
never was so realized and appreciated as in the military hospitals
during the war.

Here, for instance, in this one ward, were as many as fifty patients, in
every stage of wounds, fever and suffering; so nervous, so restless, so
excitable, as not to be able to bear a ray of light, or a sound of
noise; yet exposed to the bright flaring of the gas-burners; to the
irrepressible groans, tossings and complainings of their companions; and
to the necessary movements of the doctors, nurses and assistants.

Think of that you who, when you have a nervous headache, cannot bear the
light of a taper, or the fall of a footstep in your room at night.

Where silence, stillness and darkness seemed the very necessary
conditions of life, these sufferers had only noise, hurry and glare. And
this was quite inevitable in the crowded wards. And from these causes
alone delirium and death must have often ensued but for the benign
influence of opium.

The nurses administered it pure, or in combination with such other
medicines as each case might require. And then the restless, irritable
sufferers ceased to disturb themselves and others with their tossings
and groanings; and with their wounds dressed, their heads cooled, and
their nerves quieted, lay under their smoothly straightened white
counterpanes in perfect repose. And now that the patients were quiet,
the nurses also were still, and the gas was turned low. And peace
descended like a blessing on the place.

As Elfie sat beside her patient, and looked down along the lines of
white beds, with their calm occupants, she thought that there was
something of Heaven in the aspect of the scene.

While she so looked, she observed in the farthest corner of the room,
near the last bed on the opposite side, a group gathered.

She saw that this group consisted of a surgeon, a chaplain and a nurse.
Presently the chaplain knelt by the bed, and began to pray in a low
tone, audible only to the patient on the bed, and the people who stood
around it.

In a few minutes the chaplain arose, stood silently by the patient for
awhile, and then, with the surgeon, left the ward. And the nurse drew
the sheet up over the face of the dead.

And though all passed so quietly, Elfie knew that a soldier’s soul had
departed.

Some twenty minutes passed away, and then four men came in at the lower
door, with a bier, upon which they placed the mattress with the dead
man, and carried him out.

And all this was accomplished silently, without disturbing the other
patients in the ward.

The nurse, when her duties to the dead were done, came softly stepping
up to Elfie’s side.

“Some poor fellow has gone to his rest. Who was it?” inquired Elfie.

“Poor young Carnes, the boy in whom Miss Rosenthal was so much
interested. We have been expecting his death for many days. And now he
is gone. He passed away perfectly conscious and perfectly resigned. And
he left his love, and his little pocket testament to Miss Rosenthal,”
said the nurse. And then she went her way to her other duties.

Tears stood in Elfie’s eyes.

“And yet he is only one among thousands and thousands who have perished
like him, in the flower of their youth. Oh, this war! this war!” she
sighed.

Then she looked down upon her own patient. He was sleeping peacefully
under the influence of the opiate.

The hours passed quietly on towards midnight. Elfie with her hand held
prisoner the hand of her patient, and her head resting on the edge of
his pillow, fell asleep.

The nurse passing softly on her rounds of inspection, paused to gaze on
this scene, the poor mutilated man and his weary wife, both sleeping so
peacefully, and so unconscious of the danger that was evident to the
nurse’s experience.

“Poor things,” she murmured, “let them sleep while they may.”

Elfie slept several hours. When she awoke it was near day. She looked at
her little watch and saw that it was four o’clock in the morning.

Her patient was still sleeping very calmly, although she had, on waking
up, unconsciously drawn her hand from his.

“Oh, he is a great deal better! a great deal better! He will be sure to
get well!” said Elfie, gazing with satisfaction and thankfulness upon
the calmly sleeping face.

She bathed her own eyes and temples from a little pocket flacon of
cologne water to wake herself up more effectually, and then she sat
cheerfully watching for the dawn, and frequently looking down upon the
face of her patient.

An hour more had passed when, looking upon Goldsborough’s face, she
fancied that it had changed, and grown paler and more sunken. While
gazing intently, to be sure she was right, she became sensible of a
sound of dull, soft trickling and dropping. Thinking of nothing but that
her jug might be leaking and her lemonade wasting, she hastily arose to
examine; and her eyes fell upon a sight that made her senses reel:
beside the bed was a crimson pool formed from a stream of blood that
trickled and dropped from under the counterpane.

In an instant Elfie knew what had happened. The hemorrhage had broken
out again, and the patient was fast bleeding to death in his opium
sleep.

Suppressing the scream that arose to her lips, Elfie flew noiselessly
down the ward to the spot where the nurses and night-watchers sat, and
breathlessly told them of the fatality.

One of the nurses hastened out to fetch a surgeon, and the other
accompanied Elfie back to her patient.

The woman immediately uncovered the stump of the mutilated limb, and
placing her hand to the lips of the wound, pressed them together to stop
the hemorrhage until the surgeon should arrive.

The action awoke the sleeper. He gasped for breath and stared around him
in bewilderment.

Elfie was already by his side, with her hand in his. But his feeble hand
had no longer the power to close on hers.

He was dying fast.

“What—has—happened?” he panted, turning his eyes, wild with the
approaching struggle, up to the face of Elfie.

“My love, my love, it is only your wound bleeding a little. We will stop
it soon,” she replied, in a low and soothing tone, repressing all
exhibition of the despair that was nearly breaking her heart.

“I—I am dying, Elfie! Pray—pray—for me, darling,” he gasped.

Elfie sank on her knees, and spreading her arms over him, prayed
fervently:

“Oh, Heavenly Father, forgive him, forgive, and receive him and bless
him, for our Savior’s sake,” she cried over and over again, in the
earnestness of her supplication.

“Amen, Amen,” he breathed, at every interval of her prayer.

“Oh, my love, my love! Christ will atone to God for all your sins. And
I—I will do all I can to atone to man!” wept Elfie, as she arose from
her knees.

The surgeon came hurrying to the scene. But a single glance at the dying
man assured him that all his own medical skill, all the world’s medical
skill would never succeed in saving him now.

Albert Goldsborough turned his fading eyes on his wife, and feebly tried
to raise his hand. She understood him and bowed her head, and took his
hand and passed it around her neck.

“Elfie—forgive—forgive—” he breathed and then failed.

“Oh, my dear love, I have nothing to forgive,” she wept, pressing her
lips to his clammy brow.

“Bless you—Elfie—Bless——” he panted, and stopped.

His eyes glazed and his head dropped.

He was dead, in Elfie’s arms.

“He is gone, my dear. Come away,” said the gentle voice of Sister Agnes,
who had come softly to the side of the bed.

Elfie laid her beloved burden back upon the pillow, gazed at the dead
face in unutterable love and grief, pressed her lips upon the cold brow,
and then turned and gave her hand to Sister Agnes, who led her from the
room.

Well it was for Elfie that she was not of a temperament to suppress her
emotions.

As soon as she had reached the little bed-room in the third story she
threw herself into her friend’s arms and burst into a flood of tears.

The Sister of Mercy, young in years, but old in her experience of
sorrow, let the mourner weep and sob, until she had exhausted the
violence of her emotions.

Then she led her to one of the beds and made her lie down upon it, and
soothed her with tender caresses and gentle words.

And then saying that she would go and send a messenger for Miss
Rosenthal, she left Elfie to repose.

It was still very early in the morning, just about sunrise, when Erminie
came in her carriage, in answer to the summons, and was shown
immediately to the little room occupied by Elfie.

On seeing her friend, Elfie started up and fell upon Erminie’s bosom and
gave way to another outburst of sorrow.

Erminie silently embraced and supported her until the paroxysm was over.
Then she made Elfie lie down again on her bed until Sister Agnes had
brought up a cup of tea and a piece of dry toast, which they persuaded
her to take.

“And now, my dear,” said Erminie, when Elfie had drained the cup, “you
must put on your bonnet and mantle and return home with me. The carriage
is waiting at the door.”

“Oh, Erminie! I cannot—I cannot leave him here!” wept Elfie.

“And you shall not, dear. I have spoken to the surgeon in charge, and he
will speak to those in authority and take the necessary measures to have
the remains of Colonel Goldsborough removed to our house, where the
funeral shall be solemnized,” said Miss Rosenthal.

“Oh, Erminie! how can I ever thank and bless you enough!” exclaimed
Elfie.

The Lutheran minister’s orphan daughter stooped and kissed the sorrowing
girl, and then with her own hands put on Elfie’s shawl and bonnet and
made her ready for her ride.

Lastly, Miss Rosenthal, in a graceful and earnest manner, thanked Sister
Agnes for her kindness to Elfie, and then took leave.

When they were in the carriage, Erminie said:

“Give yourself no uneasiness about the details of this sad duty, Elfie.
I will send for the proper people and have everything done to your
satisfaction.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks, with all my heart and soul!” wept Elfie.

When they reached the parsonage, Erminie made Elfie undress and go to
bed, and soon had the comfort of seeing the weeping girl sob herself to
sleep.

Erminie sent for her friend, Dr. Sales, and put all the arrangements for
the funeral in his hands. And then she sat down and wrote a letter to
Elfie’s father, telling him all that had happened, and begging him to
get leave and come to his daughter as soon as possible.

This letter, as it afterwards appeared, never reached Major Fielding,
who happened at the very time of its posting to be on his way to
Washington.

The funeral of Albert Goldsborough took place on Sunday. He was interred
in the same burial ground where the remains of the deceased members of
the Rosenthal family reposed.

Elfie returned from the grave sorrowful but composed, and that night she
was blessed with the first quiet sleep that had visited her weary-mind
and body since her meeting with her wounded husband in the hospital.

On the next day, Monday, Elfie, dressed in her widow’s weeds, was seated
in the library, seeking comfort and guidance from the pages of the Holy
Scriptures, when she heard the street door bell ring.

And the moment after the library door was opened, and Major Fielding
entered the room.

Seeing a quiet little woman sitting there in widow’s weeds, with her
fine hair concealed under a widow’s cap, and knowing nothing at all of
what had happened to his daughter within the last few weeks, the honest
major supposed that he had made a mistake, and intruded upon one of Miss
Rosenthal’s visitors. And with an—

“I beg your pardon, Madam; I was told that I should find my daughter
here,” he was about to back out, when Elfie looked up, and exclaiming:

“Papa! papa! oh, don’t you know me?” started up and flung herself into
his arms, and sobbing violently, clung to him.

“Elfie! you! You in this dress! And weeping so! What is the meaning of
it?” demanded the old soldier, in unbounded astonishment.

“Oh, papa, papa dear, don’t blame me, and—don’t blame him, or my heart
will break!” sobbed Elfie.

“But—what do you mean, girl? Blame who? Blame what?” cried the major in
amazement.

“Oh, papa, I couldn’t help it, dear, indeed I couldn’t! Neither could
he,” she wept.

“Help what? Compose yourself, and explain, if you can, girl. Why do you
weep? why are you wearing this dress?” said the major, sinking into the
nearest chair, and drawing Elfie down upon his lap.

“Papa, I was carried off by guerrillas and obliged to do it. And—indeed,
I am not sorry I did it now. And he was mortally wounded, papa, and
dying in the hospital, and after all we did love each other so much, and
that was how it was. Oh, papa dear, don’t be angry with me, or you will
kill me!” said Elfie, bursting into a fresh flood of tears.

“I am not angry, but I believe I am half crazed. Will you tell me,
Elfie, why you grieve so bitterly, and why you, who never were a wife,
should be wearing a widow’s dress?” said the patient veteran.

“I told you how it was, papa. I told—old you how it was. O, don’t blame
us, papa, or if you must blame anybody, let it be me. It was all my
fault. Don’t blame him; he can’t defend himself any longer. You may rail
at him, but he cannot reply. His lips are mute now, and the dust lies on
them,” cried Elfie, breaking into hysterical sobs.

In despair of gaining any clear information from his distracted
daughter, Major Fielding arose and placed her gently in the chair, and
then went and rang the bell.

Bob answered it.

“Is Miss Rosenthal in the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you ask her to come here, if she pleases?”

Bob disappeared.

In a moment after Erminie entered and greeted Major Fielding with grave
and sweet courtesy.

“Erminie, my dear, tell me the meaning of this. I can’t get a coherent
word out of this hysterical girl,” said Major Fielding.

“But—didn’t you get my letter of Friday last?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.

“No, my dear; for on Friday last I left for Washington.”

“Then I have a serious story to tell you, Major Fielding; but I will
tell it as briefly as possible. Sit down,” said Miss Rosenthal.

Major Fielding took a chair. Miss Rosenthal seated herself; and while
Elfie sobbed softly behind her pocket handkerchief, and the major
listened attentively, Erminie told the story of Elfie’s abduction by the
guerrillas, her forced marriage to Albert Goldsborough, the surprise of
the guerrilla camp by the Federals, the defeat and death of the Free
Sword, and the capture of Goldsborough, the deliverance of Elfie, and
her subsequent meeting with her husband in the hospital, and all that
followed thereupon.

“Oh, papa! papa! do not reproach me, dear! do not, or my heart will
break!” sobbed Elfie, as she once again threw herself into his arms.

“I have no thought of reproaching you, my poor girl,” said the gentle
father, caressing his child.

“And do not blame him, papa!—oh, do not blame him! He is dead now!” she
wept.

“And the dead are sacred, my girl,” said the major, gathering his child
closer to his bosom.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                         WINGS GALLANT CHARGE.

             “Spare man nor steed, use utmost speed,
               Before the sun goes down,
             You, sir, must ride,” the colonel cried,
               “As far as Pendletown.”
             “Colonel,” the brave young man saith,
               “To hear is to obey!
             Comrades! the path is fringed with death!
               Who rides with me to-day?”—EDMUNDUS SCOTUS.


Every one knows how hopefully the campaign of the Spring of 1864 opened.
In almost every engagement the Union arms triumphed.

Colonel Rosenthal’s regiment performed their parts of duty, suffered
their share of casualties and received their meed of glory.

But the glory of war is inseparable from the gloom of death. The
regiment was decimated. And it had to be filled up with raw recruits.
And Adjutant Wing, for “gallant and meritorious conduct,” was promoted
to the rank of Captain and placed at the head of Company K. in a
position rendered vacant by the casualties of war.

At this time the regiment was stationed at the town of C.

On the afternoon of the day when Wing received his captain’s commission,
he entered the quarters of his colonel, and saluting him respectfully,
said in a tone rather of reproach than of gratitude, for he was by no
means elated at the change:

“I presume that I have to thank you for this promotion, sir?”

“Not so, adjutant. I confess that I am selfish enough to desire always
to retain you at headquarters. No—I had nothing to do with the affair
beyond speaking of you as you deserved in my report. With a soldier, to
hear is to obey, Wing. And whether I like to lose my adjutant or not,
and whether you like to leave the office or not, you must assume command
of your company before the dress-parade at sunset,” said Colonel
Rosenthal.

Wing bowed and left his colonel’s presence.

And at the dress-parade he appeared with his captain’s straps at the
head of his company.

But if Wing was not satisfied with his promotion, neither was his
company satisfied with their captain. Apparently there was no love lost
between them.

When the dress-parade was over and the men at liberty to rove over the
camp and gather in groups to smoke or gossip, the members of company K
were heard to indulge in mutterings of discontent, not loud but deep.
Before the appointment of Wing as their captain, company K had been
commanded by a tall, stalwart, athletic first lieutenant, who was very
popular among the men. And this circumstance made the “baby adjutant,”
as they called him, still less acceptable as their captain.

“To put _that_ little fellow over us! a mere lad!” indignantly growled
Sergeant Copley.

“Looks like a girl in boy’s clothes!” grumbled Corporal Bang.

“‘Boy,’ ‘girl?’ Why he is a mere infant!” exclaimed Corporal West.

“A mere threadpaper! a mere cobweb! I wonder how he’ll stand fire!”
laughed Sergeant Jones.

“I wonder what the devil the Secretary of War could have been thinking
of!” muttered Corporal Quartz.

“I should like to see him in an engagement once!” said Copley.

“And so should I!”

“And I!”—muttered each malcontent in his turn.

For even so freely would the best disciplined soldiers canvass the
characters of their superior officers, in their absence.

“I’ll tell you what, boys,” said Sergeant Hay, “you are talking of one
you know nothing about. Captain Wing has been in the service less than a
year and has already distinguished himself on several notable
occasions.”

“Oh yes! we dare say he made a very good spy to creep into guerrilla
camps. We heard all about that. And no doubt he was a very fair
accountant and kept the regimental books in good order. But we want to
see him under fire before we throw up our caps and hurrah for him as our
captain,” laughed West.

“He has been under fire a score of times and never blenched. And I can
tell you this, my comrades: When you _do_ see him under fire, you will
see one who will not _drive_ you like sheep, but _lead_ you like men.
You will see one who will not get behind a tree during the engagement
and cry—‘_Go_ on, boys!’ as some of our gallant officers have done; but
who will dash on in advance and shout to you—‘_Come_ on, boys!’ And if
he does not inspire your whole company with valor, I know nothing of
him.”

“We shall see,” said Sergeant Jones, incredulously.

“We shall see,” echoed the others.

Very soon they had an opportunity of seeing.

The next morning the third battalion of the regiment under Major Kerr,
the same battalion to which Company K belonged, was ordered to march to
P. to destroy certain saltpetre works belonging to the enemy. P. was a
well fortified town, distant about forty miles from C., and the
intervening country was infested with guerrillas.

The orders were issued at seven o’clock in the morning. By half-past
seven the battalion was under arms, with two days’ rations. And at eight
o’clock they marched.

Their road lay for some miles through the mountainous and heavily wooded
country east of C. Then through open fields and meadows, and lastly into
the depths of the valley forest.

At noon they halted for an hour’s rest and refreshment, that men and
horses might be in good fighting order when they should arrive at their
destination.

Then they continued their march until they emerged from the forest and
entered upon the more open country, diversified with hills and valleys,
groves and meadows, brooks and rivers.

Winding between the hills, striking across the meadows and fording the
rivers, they at length came in sight of the entrenched saltpetre works.

Then a momentary halt was called; an order was given; the bugle sounded
the charge, and the whole cavalry force advanced at a gallop.

A fierce fire was immediately opened upon them from behind the
breastworks.

In the hail of bullets a man fell here and there, and a riderless horse
bounded out of the line of march and rushed madly over the plain. And
these gallant men dashed onward under that storm of death to take the
works by assault.

But presently a more serious danger menaced them. The one section of a
battery possessed by the rebels of this post consisted of two guns.
These guns were now brought into position and trained so as to bear
directly upon the right flank of the approaching column; and the first
shot fired, at so short a distance, took fatal effect, tearing its way
through, and leaving a track of death filled up with riders and horses
overthrown, struggling, wounded, mutilated, dying, or dead.

“CAPTAIN WING! advance with your company and take that battery!” shouted
the major commanding the expedition.

For one instant Wing looked up astonished; for the order was a desperate
one, and the duty well nigh a forlorn hope.

Only for that instant did Wing betray his amazement. Then he fully
verified the prediction of Hay. Waving his sabre above his head he
shouted:

“Come on, boys!” put spurs to his horse and dashed forward, leading the
charge.

What man among them would not have followed that “light, inspired form,”
to seek glory even “in the cannon’s mouth?”

Like an angel of destruction he rushed onward, followed by all his men.

The enemy, seeing this new movement, turned their guns as quickly as
possible upon the charging party.

The first shot in this direction, as on the former occasion, tore its
way through the centre of the advancing body, strewing mutilated and
dying men and horses in its track, and leaving even those who were
unhurt half disabled by their restive horses.

They were now approaching the battery by a very broad road, bordered on
each side by high wooded banks.

An instant’s hesitation now on the part of Wing must have been fatal to
the success of the expedition. But there was no such hesitation.

“CLOSE ON THE CENTRE—FORWARD!” came the deep, sweet, solemn tones of the
young leader.

And the men closed in close columns, filling up the gap torn by the
cannon ball, and, over the dead and dying, galloped onward.

Again came the shot booming from the battery, and ripping its way
through the middle of the advancing column, scattering men and horses
dead and dying upon the ground.

“CLOSE ON THE CENTRE—FORWARD!” again sounded the voice of the young
leader.

And again the men filled up the gap and galloped onward.

Once more a shot came splitting its way through the middle of the
column, strewing its path with the dead and the dying. Once more came
the solemn voice of the leader.

“CLOSE ON THE CENTRE—FORWARD!”

And as before the men closed up the column and continued the march.

A fourth, a fifth, and a sixth shot was fired, each with tremendous
effect.

And after each was still to be heard, like the voice of an inexorable
fate, the solemn tones of the young leader, issuing his immutable order:

“CLOSE ON THE CENTRE—FORWARD!”

And although their number was reduced by the loss of at least one third
of their men, they grimly closed column over the dead and the dying, and
pushed onward.

And in three minutes after the sixth shot had been fired, they were upon
the works, engaged in a stern hand to hand conflict with the enemy.

After a short, sharp struggle of less than half an hour they took the
battery, captured two guns, and fifty rounds of ammunition, and thirty
prisoners.

The way into the town from this quarter was now clear. And Wing marched
in at the head of his company. And soon over the rebel works the Union
flag waved in triumph. About twenty minutes later Major Kerr, at the
head of the other three companies, marched into the town. His men had
suffered much under the galling fire of musketry that had opposed their
entrance previous to Wing’s taking possession of the town.

One captain, two lieutenants and about twenty privates were killed. And
two lieutenants and about forty privates were severely wounded.

Major Kerr came up just in time to relieve Captain Wing of a certain
responsibility that he always detested—namely the burning of the town.

Wing’s taste was more for fighting than for destruction, and naturally
he had taken the town, but hesitated to burn it.

Major Kerr’s taste was more for destruction than for fighting, therefore
he had let Wing capture the town, and had followed him in to destroy it.

Wing pleaded hard for the salvation of private dwelling houses, but, in
fact, it was impossible to effectually destroy the saltpetre works
without sacrificing the whole town.

The women and children were sent out to a place of safety. The prisoners
were dispatched to the rear; and then the work of destruction commenced.

And that night witnessed an awful conflagration, that lighted up a vast
amphitheatre of country, and carried consternation as far as its flames
were seen.

And the next morning the sun arose upon a blackened and smoking mass of
ruins, where once the thriving village had stood.

The forenoon was employed by our troops in burying the dead and in
attending to the wounded. These last mentioned were placed in ambulances
to be transported back to C.

And at midday the battalion was under arms and prepared to march.

They reached C. about nightfall, carrying with them the news of the
complete success of the expedition.

Major Kerr made a true report of the action, giving Captain Wing his
just dues of praise.

And the next morning Colonel Rosenthal sent for Wing, and expressed his
high approbation of that young officer’s heroism.

“There is not a man in my company, Colonel, who does not merit as much
praise as you have kindly bestowed upon me,” answered Wing respectfully.

“And they shall receive it. But the wonder to me is, Wing, that you were
not hurt, leading the men as you did to that terrible charge. You were
not even slightly wounded, were you?”

“Not even scratched, Colonel.”

“Pray do you wear a magic armor under your uniform, Wing?”

“Not that I know of, Colonel,” laughed the young officer.

“You have been in at least half a dozen battles, and never once been
wounded.”

“Never yet, Colonel. But I have a presentiment that if I ever am struck,
I shall not be wounded but killed,” said the boy officer gravely.

“Nonsense, Wing, I don’t believe in presentiments. I never had a
presentiment fulfilled in my life,” laughed the colonel.

At that moment an orderly entered the quarters, saluted, and handed a
small sealed packet to his colonel.

Colonel Rosenthal broke it open and read it hastily, changed color as he
never had done on the most fiercely fought battle-field, and then he
passed the paper to Wing, saying:

“You see it is a telegram summoning me immediately to Washington, and it
must be acted upon without delay.”

Wing also grew very pale as he read the dispatch. He returned it without
a word.

Colonel Rosenthal immediately put himself in communication with the
general commanding his division, and the next day, having obtained a
short furlough, left for Washington.

A very few hours after the departure of Colonel Rosenthal, Captain Wing
applied for ten days’ leave of absence for the purpose of visiting a
dear friend supposed to be at the point of death.

As this was the first occasion upon which the brave young officer had
made an application of the sort, and as he had so recently rendered a
distinguished service, it was promptly granted him.

And the next morning Wing also left for Washington.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                             DEATH LIGHTS.

           Thy cheek too quickly flushes, o’er thine eye
           The shadows come and go too fast;
           Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
           Are sounds of tenderness too passionate
           For peace on earth! Oh, therefore, child of song,
           ’Tis well thou should’st depart.—HEMANS.


In the months that had elapsed since Albert Goldsborough’s death, and in
the steady performance of every duty, Elfie had recovered her serenity
and cheerfulness.

The idea of atonement was very strong in Elfie, and under its influence,
she devoted herself to the service of the sick and wounded soldiers in
the hospitals with a zeal equal to that of Erminie.

“I know,” she said, “that only our Saviour can atone to God for our
sins. But sometimes we may atone to man. I will do all I can for the
suffering soldiers until the war is over. And then if I really do come
into the widow’s share of poor Albert’s fortune, I will not appropriate
one dollar’s worth of it to myself. I will give it all to the orphans of
the war, to the orphans of both sides, for the children are not
accountable for the actions of their fathers, and far be from us the
presumption of arrogating to ourselves the divine prerogative of
visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children,” she would add.

And Erminie always approved her plans, and encouraged her to hope for
their successful operation.

So the winter and the spring months had passed, and the early summer
found the youthful widow serene and cheerful in the discharge of her
duties.

There was very little to vary the monotony of this domestic life.

Major Fielding had not been home since the notable occasion upon which
his daughter had given him such a surprise.

Justin was with his regiment at C.

Captain Ethel was in command of the gunboat Fire-King, on the Potomac.

And Britomarte was in parts unknown.

Yet letters from every one of these came very often.

On one especial morning a whole budget of news arrived. There was one
from Major Fielding to his daughter, announcing his speedy arrival on a
short leave. There was one from Justin to his sister, filled with good
news of his military success and his personal well-being. There was one
from Lieutenant Ethel, promising a short visit to the city, and a call
upon his fair friends at the parsonage. And lastly there was one from
Britomarte, postmarked Baltimore, and filled with the warmest
expressions of affection for Erminie, and the most satisfactory
statements concerning her own health and success. But where she was
living, or what she was doing, remained unrevealed secrets.

Elfie, to whom Erminie read the letter, screwed up her mouth, and looked
like “she _could_ an’ if she would” “a tale unfold,” but she didn’t.

And besides, Elfie was interested in the other letters, and preferred to
talk of them and their subjects—her father’s promised visit, Justin’s
encouraging successes, and even young Ethel’s prospective call.

“It is likely that pap and Ethel will both be here to-day or to-morrow,
Erminie, don’t you think?” she inquired.

Erminie coincided with her in opinion.

That morning the young ladies lingered so long over their breakfast
table and their delightful letters, that it was rather later than usual
when they set off for the hospitals.

“The morning is so delicious that we will walk, I think, Elfie,” said
Miss Rosenthal, as they emerged from the front door.

“All right. I would rather walk,” agreed Elfie.

And they set out at a brisk pace.

“Erminie, I always knew you had a very light, elastic step, but indeed,
to-day you seem to walk with ‘winged feet,’ as Homer has it. And now I
look at you, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are dancing. It is
all of a piece, and all equally the effect of those delightful letters,
I do suppose,” said Elfie.

“I do suppose it is. And yet I do not know. But certainly, though I have
always been in good health, I never felt so well in my life as I do now.
I feel as if some strong, divine elixir in my brains gave me a new sense
of life. But I am talking too much of myself and my own sensations. What
nonsense. Let us speak of something else. Young Ethel. I have a great
respect for that gallant young officer, Elfie. And if your father comes
to make us any sort of a long visit, I shall invite Ethel to stop at the
parsonage, as he did during his last sojourn in Washington,” said Miss
Rosenthal.

“That will be very agreeable only it will curtail us of our liberties.
No more sailing all over the house, at all hours of the day and night,
in our white wrappers and slippers,” replied Elfie.

And so chatting, the young ladies went on their way, that bright summer
morning, towards the hospital.

From ward to ward Erminie went, carrying everywhere the same bright
smile that shone with such strange, supernal beauty that morning.

And the soldiers whom she cheered and comforted said to each other, when
she had passed by, how she looked—like an angel from Heaven, with the
celestial light still around her.

They walked the rounds of three other hospitals, and then Erminie spoke
of turning their steps homeward.

But Elfie remonstrated.

“I’ll tell you what, Miss Rosenthal, _you_ may be exhilarated by some
divine elixir, or you may be borne on by invisible wings, but as for me,
I have nothing but my mortal flesh and blood and bones to uphold me, and
I am just so tired that my limbs are ready to bend under me, and my back
aches as if I were a hundred years old,” she said.

“Under these circumstances we must take a carriage, I suppose,” smiled
Erminie.

And the carriage was called, and they drove home.

Erminie did not go out again to the hospitals that afternoon.

She was expecting a small party of friends to take tea and spend the
evening, and it was necessary to make some preparations for them.

So after an early luncheon Erminie and Elfie began to gather flowers to
decorate the drawing-room, and the dining-room and library.

“My pap is very fond of company. I hope he will arrive this evening. It
would be such a pleasant surprise for him to meet a party of his friends
here,” said Elfie, as she arranged a large bush of odorous
magnolia-grandiflora to sit on the drawing-room hearth.

“I think it quite likely that your hopes will be realized, Elfie,”
answered Erminie, who was delicately placing a bouquet of lilies and
roses in a vase for the centre table.

When their preparations were completed, Elfie sauntered up to her room
to lie down and indulge in her usual afternoon nap.

But Erminie went to inspect the condition of her pastry, and to order
certain fresh delicacies prepared for the evening feast. And then she
called her housemaid, and went up stairs, and had the rooms she intended
to assign to Major Fielding and Captain Ethel arranged under her own
eyes for the reception of their inmates.

When Elfie awoke from her sleep she found Erminie still actively
engaged.

“‘My heyes!’ as the cockneys say, what has come to you, Erminie? You
have been on your feet the whole day. You have walked twenty miles at
least, if the ground you’ve gone over was all stretched out in a line;
and you have been hard at work ever since you got home, and you look as
fresh and brilliant as a blush rose with the morning dew upon it.
Really, now, aint you tired?” inquired Elfie, as she entered the
dining-room where Erminie was decorating the tea-table.

“Not in the least,” said Miss Rosenthal, smiling brightly. “But now, my
dear Elfie, it is time for us to dress ourselves. Our friends will come
early because the summer evenings are so short.”

Elfie yawned dismally.

“Now I haven’t been half so hard at work as you have, and I have had a
good nap besides, and yet I feel more like lolling in a rocking chair
than putting myself into an evening dress,” she said, as she sauntered
away to make her toilet.

An hour later, just as the sun set, leaving a clear, beautiful twilight,
Erminie and Elfie met in the drawing-room to wait for the coming of
their company.

Elfie looked very pretty in her thin, black grenadine dress, with jet
jewelry, and the little cap of white illusion that contrasted so well
with her raven hair.

But Erminie looked dazzlingly beautiful—not from the effect of her
toilet, for nothing could be cooler or quieter than her dress—a pure
white grenadine, embroidered in sprigs of black silk, and trimmed with
white lace and black ribbon. It was her face, her countenance, that was
so radiant. Her cheeks and lips were flushed with a bright carnation
color; her eyes were sparkling with animation; even her auburn hair
seemed to glitter with a sort of electric splendor.

Elfie gazed on her in wonder and admiration.

“Well, Erminie, you were always indisputably beautiful; but now—Well,
there! You almost alarm me! You look as if there was some inward glory
shining through you and making your earthly beauty heavenly!” she said.

“Nonsense, love! Don’t _you_ turn flatterer, or I shall lose my respect
for you,” laughed Erminie.

“Flatterer! There! look in the glass and see for yourself whether I have
flattered you! Come, it is still light enough for you to see, or if it
is not, you will make the light!” said Elfie, turning her friend
forcibly around to face the tall pier glass that stood between the two
back windows.

“Absurd! I am in good health and good spirits—that is the whole secret,”
said Miss Rosenthal, laughing and blushing, and breaking away from the
too ardent admiration of Elfie.

And at that moment the first bevy of visitors arrived, and little Mim
and his four little maiden aunts were shown into the drawing-room.

Erminie received her visitors with courtesy, but Elfie welcomed them
with effusion.

Erminie entertained Mr. Mim in the drawing-room, while Elfie took the
four Misses Mim up stairs to lay off their bonnets and put on their head
dresses.

The next party that arrived consisted of Mr. Billingcoo, his
grandmother, and his guitar.

And the old lady was shown up stairs to the dressing-room where she
found the Misses Mim with Elfie.

After them came other friends of the family; and by seven o’clock the
whole company was assembled, and enjoying themselves by sauntering
through the moonlit walks of the beautiful grounds in the rear of the
house.

“I am expecting Major Fielding this evening,” said Erminie to little
Mim, who was walking by her side.

“I am so glad to hear that. I always had the greatest respect for Major
Fielding, as well as for—for his daughter—and for all the ladies!”

Little Mim, whenever he was betrayed into any expression of admiration
or regard for Elfie, invariably added “all the ladies” as a saving
clause. Now, however, though he walked and talked with Erminie, his eyes
and his thoughts followed Elfie as she sauntered on in front of them by
the side of Dr. Sales.

“They both reciprocate your regard, I am very sure,” said Erminie,
kindly.

“Miss Rosenthal,” said the little fellow solemnly, “when I learned all
in a moment that she was married and widowed, you might have floored me
with a feather. I beg your pardon for using a slang phrase, but there is
nothing that can so well express the effect the news had upon me. And
even now I can’t seem to get over it. And when I think of what she used
to be, and look at her now in her widow’s dress, it seems as if I could
not recognize her for herself. It is just as if some splendid oriole was
suddenly changed into a blackbird,” he said, with a profound sigh.

“The mere effect of her dress, Mr. Mim. Elfie is still herself.
Naturally, she grieved over the tragic death of Albert Goldsborough, yet
not so bitterly as she had grieved over the treason that separated them
as lovers three years ago. It was then that the iron entered the soul of
Elfie. But she has been stronger ever since.”

“She is a heroic girl!—And so are all the ladies!” answered little Mim,
tempering enthusiasm with prudence.

“Well! Well! Where are you all? And who is coming to welcome me?” called
out the cheery voice of Major Fielding, issuing from the back porch of
the house.

With a cry of joy, Elfie dropped the arm of Dr. Sales, turned and sprang
past all her friends, and darted up the gravel walk to meet her father,
and threw herself into his arms.

Erminie followed her to welcome the veteran.

“And here is a stranger I have brought with me! Captain Ethel! Bless
you, I found him on the wharf! conscripted him, and made him come,”
heartily exclaimed the major, doing three or four things at the same
time—kissing his daughter, shaking hands with his hostess, and
presenting his friend.

“I am delighted to see you, Major Fielding, and I thank you cordially
for bringing our friend with you! Captain Ethel, I congratulate you on
your new promotion,” said Miss Rosenthal, warmly welcoming her guest.

Young Ethel bowed low in acknowledgment of those courteous words; and
then he offered Erminie his arm; and they followed Major Fielding and
his daughter, who had preceded them, down the garden walk.

Major Fielding was surprised and pleased to meet so many of his old
friends, and he insisted on believing that they had come purposely to
meet him.

Captain Ethel was duly presented to such of the company as were not
personally known to him.

And then, as the evening air was growing damp, the company adjourned
from the garden to the house, where tea was soon served.

After tea they went into the lighted drawing-room, where Mr. Billingcoo
entertained the ladies with some of his best songs, accompanying himself
upon his guitar.

And when he had tired himself and his audience, Erminie delighted her
friends with some of her finest music on the pianoforte.

But Erminie’s radiant and dazzling beauty was the one theme of wonder
and admiration among her guests. The almost divine splendor of that
beauty had escaped their observation in the moonlit garden; but now in
the lighted drawing-room it struck them with something like amazement.

“How lovely Miss Rosenthal looks this evening! I never in my life saw,
or even imagined anything so brilliantly beautiful as her face,” said
sober Dr. Sales to old Major Fielding.

“Yes! I have been watching her. She always was a perfect beauty, you
know! but now she’s a perfect angel!” answered the major.

And unconscious of the admiration she was exciting, Erminie played and
sang unweariedly.

When she arose from the piano, old Mrs. Billingcoo went to her side, and
looking at her attentively, said:

“Your cheeks and lips are like scarlet roses, my love! and your eyes are
like diamonds!—Are you sure you are quite well?”

Erminie’s silvery laugh rang out clearly and joyously, and almost
startlingly, from her who was always so quiet.

“My dear Mrs. Billingcoo, I never felt so well in my life! Like
Wordsworth’s little maid, I feel my ‘life in every limb’!” she said. And
she immediately left the room to order ice cream and strawberries, for
the refreshment of her guests.

A little later in the evening, when the company was thinking of breaking
up, Miss Suzy Mim, watching Erminie, said:

“I am sure Miss Rosenthal is keeping up by great effort! I wonder if she
hasn’t been taking ammonia or something!”

“Ammonia!” indignantly exclaimed Elfie. “Erminie never takes anything of
that sort!”

“Then what makes her looks so? And what makes her act so? Her cheeks are
blooming like roses, and her eyes are sparkling like gems! And her
spirits are running away with her! It ain’t natural, say what you will!
And if she hasn’t been taking ammonia, or if she isn’t putting all this
on, she’s in danger.”

“In danger!” echoed Elfie, in alarm.

“Yes, child!”

“Of what?”

“Fever!”

“Nonsense, Miss Suzy, you are always trying to frighten one! Danger?
Fever? Why, Erminie has been looking and acting just this way all day!
Only growing more brilliant and beautiful every hour,” said Elfie,
angrily—and all the more so because she secretly shared Miss Suzy’s
fears.

“Well, my dear, I hope I’m wrong. But at any rate, I think that we had
all better go home, especially as it is nearly midnight. And when we are
gone you had better get Miss Rosenthal to bed as soon as possible.”

And so saying, Miss Suzy proceeded to act upon her own words, by setting
the example of departure.

The other guests followed in turn. And at a few minutes after twelve the
company had all gone, with the exception, of course, of Major Fielding,
who was to remain; and Captain Ethel, who Erminie insisted should stay.

At a hint dropped by Elfie, these two gentlemen soon took the bed-room
candles that were ready for them, and bade good night to their hostess.

“Are you tired, Erminie?” anxiously inquired Elfie, as she paused for a
moment at the bed-room door of her friend.

“Tired? No! not in the least,” laughed Erminie.

“Are you sure?” persisted Elfie.

“Why, of course I am! I tell you I never felt so well in my life.”

“I am glad to hear it; and I won’t detain you. Good night,” said Elfie,
kissing her friend and noticing with wonder the still undimmed splendor
of her beauty.

“Good night,” smiled Erminie, vanishing through the door.

Elfie went on to her own chamber, and as soon as her head touched the
pillow fell fast asleep.

Elfie slept late the next morning, so late, in fact, that she was at
last awakened by Catherine, who came to her with a scared face, roused
her and said:

“If you please, ma’am, I wish you would come to Miss Rosenthal!”

“Erminie! what’s the matter with her?” exclaimed Elfie, starting up in
alarm.

“Indeed I don’t know, ma’am; but she is very ill; and seems to be raving
mad.”

Elfie sprang out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, thrust her naked feet
into slippers, and ran at once to the chamber of Erminie.

There upon the bed lay the good and beautiful girl, unconscious of all
that was passing around her, and rolling and raving with fever and
delirium.

In the extremity of terror, Elfie ran down just as she was, to the
library, where her father was sitting alone waiting for his breakfast.

Breathlessly she told him what had happened, and dispatched him to get a
physician, saying that he could get one more quickly than a servant
could.

Then she hurried back to her tossing and raving friend.

In half an hour the family physician arrived. After making a careful
examination of his patient, he came out of the room and sought Major
Fielding.

“What do you think of her?” anxiously inquired the major.

“Telegraph for her brother immediately,” answered the doctor.

His orders were obeyed, and the same morning the message was flashed
along the wires that was to bring Justin to the bedside of his beloved
sister.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                            THE DEATH WATCH.

             He came, with that disheartening fear,
             Which all who love beneath the sky
             Feel when they gaze on what is dear—
             The dreadful thought that it must die!
             That desolating thought which comes
             Into men’s happiest hours and homes,
             Whose melancholy boding flings
             Death’s shadow o’er the brightest things,
             Sicklies the maiden’s bloom, and spreads
             The grave beneath young lovers’ heads!—MOORE.


By the agency of the powerful medicines administered, Erminie’s high
excitement was calmed. The beautiful, tossing arms were stilled, and lay
lightly resting on the coverlet. The fiery flush died out of her cheeks,
the terrible light softened in her eyes, and her lovely face, now-white
and motionless as marble, lay reposing in perfect peace upon her pillow.

Elfie watched on one side of her bed, and Catherine on the other.

Major Fielding and Captain Ethel forbore to go out, even for a walk. In
their keen anxiety for the patient, and their earnest desire to render
assistance should their services be required, they remained in the
library, reading or pretending to read, but really listening and
watching for every sound and sight that could suggest anything relative
to the condition of Erminie.

Dr. Burney came three times in the course of that day.

Major Fielding and his daughter asked the physician many questions
concerning the nature of the sufferer’s illness, and the chances of her
recovery, and they received answers from him which were intended to be
encouraging, but which were really depressing.

Miss Rosenthal’s brain and nervous system were very much affected, he
said. The disease was paroxysmal in its tendency. She was now composed,
and if a reaction into fever and delirium could be prevented, she would
do well.

This was all the satisfaction they could get from her medical attendant.

Ah, “if.”

Every means, short of drugging her into the sleep of death with
sedatives and opiates, were taken to prevent a relapse into her fearful
frenzy.

Elfie sat by the bed all night, and administered all the medicines with
her own hands, and kept ice to the head and mustard to the feet and
wrists of her patient.

But all this was in vain, or attended with only a partial success.

Towards midnight Erminie’s cheeks and lips began to flush; she moved
restlessly, and muttered in her sleep.

Elfie renewed the medicine, the ice and the mustard, but with little
effect.

The evil symptoms increased rapidly, and before morning Erminie was
again, with blazing eyes and burning cheeks, raving and tossing in an
agony of fever and frenzy.

In the extremity of terror Elfie dispatched first her father and then
Captain Ethel, who were both watching the night out in the library, to
fetch the physician.

But Dr. Burney happened to be with a lady patient whom he could not
leave abruptly, and so it followed that the sun rose before he made his
appearance by Erminie’s bedside.

A fearful, a terrible vision, met him there. The beautiful and angelic
girl seemed to be turned into a raging and foaming demoniac; and it
required the united efforts of Elfie and Catherine to hold her down on
her bed.

Violent remedies had to be resorted to now to allay the frightful
cerebral excitement—cupping, leeching and bleeding were tried in turn;
and in reducing the sufferer to calmness, they almost reduced her to
death.

And her medical attendant knew, and her anxious friend feared, that as
the second attack of frenzy had been more violent than the first, so the
third attack must be the most violent, and would probably end in death.

Thus the approaching night was anticipated in horrible dread.

Meanwhile Erminie lay in the collapse of exhaustion—pale and faded as a
broken lily—without motion, speech, or color, almost without blood,
breath, or life.

From time to time Elfie, weeping and watching, moistened the poor girl’s
lips with a little melted ice.

Towards evening there seemed to be a change. Erminie moved and sighed.
And then opened her eyes and breathed.

Elfie bent over her.

“Why——” began Erminie, and then she ceased.

Elfie bent lower, and softly inquired:

“What is that you say, dear?”

“Why—am I—” again commenced Erminie, with an effort; but again her voice
failed for weakness.

“Why are you here in bed, do you mean to ask, dear?” suggested Elfie.

Erminie nodded.

“You over-exerted yourself and have had an attack of illness; but you
are better now—much better, thank Heaven,” answered Elfie, cheerfully.

“How—bloodless—they—” panted Erminie, looking with surprise at her pale
fingers, and speaking in the feeble and pointless way common with
persons affected as she was, and breaking down before she finished her
sentence.

“They were always very white, you know, dear, those fair fingers,” said
Elfie, encouragingly.

“No—rosy—rosy-tipped—” murmured Erminie, who, when she had been well in
mind and body, had been without the least vanity.

“So they will be again, dear. Never mind your fingers. Will you try to
swallow a teaspoonful of this arrow-root?” coaxed Elfie.

Erminie, apparently only to please her nurse, nodded assent and opened
her mouth like a bird to receive the atom of nourishment. But the effort
was too much for her weakness, and when she had swallowed it she gulped,
shuddered and shook her head in refusal of anything more.

After a little while she raised her eyes so wistfully to her nurse that
Elfie bent down over her to hear what she might have to say.

“How—long—have——” breathed Erminie, faintly, breaking off.

“How long have you been ill, do you mean, dear? Only since the day
before yesterday,” replied Elfie.

“What makes—so weak?” panted Erminie.

“Only your illness; but you are better now, and you will soon be strong
again.”

“You—think—so?”

“I know so, dearest. But you must not fatigue yourself by talking so
much. Try to sleep.”

And before Elfie had well spoken this advice, Erminie had dropped as
suddenly into sleep as a stone falls into a well.

But this sleep was not quiet like the preceding one.

As evening approached the sleeper became restless: tossing her limbs
about, rolling her head, and rolling her eyes, and muttering in
approaching delirium.

But why should I repeat the horrors of that second night? It was but a
reproduction of those of the first one.

Again desperate remedies were applied to meet violent symptoms. And
again the frenzy was subdued to quietness, but the sufferer meanwhile
brought nearly to dissolution. And her medical attendant might well have
said, with the conqueror of old:

“Another such a victory and I am ruined.”

By noon next day Erminie lay in sleep or stupor, with scarcely a sign of
life in her aspect, with scarcely a hope of life in prospect.

Elfie was forced to leave her for a few hours, that she—Elfie—might
recruit herself with a bath and a nap.

But early in the afternoon the faithful girl was again by the bedside of
her friend.

To her surprise she thought she saw symptoms of a favorable change.

Erminie was breathing softly. She opened her eyes, and seeing Elfie,
tried to put out her hand.

Elfie took that pale hand and kissed it, and then stooped and kissed the
still paler brow.

“Elfie!” breathed the sick girl.

“What is it, dearest?”

“Must I——_die_?”

“Nonsense, no, my dear, you are in no sort of danger.”

Erminie smiled sadly and turned away her eyes. Presently her lips moved
as if she would have spoken, and Elfie stooped to hear.

“I want——”

“What, dear Erminie?”

“—My pastor—please.”

“I will send for him, dear Erminie.”

“Soon——now!” panted the sinking girl.

“Yes, now, dearest, you shall have him,” said Elfie, who beckoned to
Catherine to take her place at the bedside; and then left the room to
have the wish of her friend gratified.

Dr. Sales, the beloved and venerated pastor of the Rosenthal family had,
since her father’s death, stood in a father’s position towards Erminie.

With the deepest distress he had heard of that good girl’s illness. He
had called every day to see her or to ask after her.

He had not yet been permitted to make his presence known to her. But
once or twice, while she lay in stupor, he had stood over her
unconscious form, gazing anxiously down on her death-like face; or he
had knelt beside her bed, praying silently for her recovery.

It was, therefore, without surprise that Elfie, when she went down
stairs, found the pastor waiting in the hall.

“Oh, Dr. Sales, I am so glad to see you! I had just come down to send
for you,” she eagerly exclaimed.

“How is our dear child this morning?” anxiously inquired the pastor.

Elfie burst into tears.

“Worse?” breathlessly demanded the old man.

“Oh, how can I tell you? Heaven only knows! Her last paroxysm of fever
and delirium was less violent; but then such powerful depletives have
been used; and it has left her weak almost unto death. But she is
conscious now, and has asked for you.”

“Can you show me at once into her room?”

“Oh yes, come,” said Elfie, softly leading the way upstairs and into
Erminie’s chamber.

Catherine still sat beside the bed fanning the sinking girl, who had
again suddenly dropped into sleep or stupor;—it was impossible to say
which.

“You will not disturb her?” whispered Elfie, anxiously.

“Certainly not. I will sit here quietly until she awakens or returns to
consciousness,” replied the pastor, in a low tone.

At a sign from Elfie the girl Catherine arose and left the room. And the
pastor seated himself in the vacant chair, and took the palm leaf and
fanned Erminie, while he watched for her awakening.

And the room was very cool, shady, and quiet, and so the sleeper lay
calmly reposing for nearly an hour, and then she softly opened her eyes
and looked with a gentle, bewildered gaze upon the figure of the
preacher seated by her bed.

“Do you know me, my child?” whispered the pastor.

She feebly moved her hand and smiled.

“You sent for me, dear child,” went on Dr. Sales.

She nodded, and then turned her eyes anxiously towards Elfie, who came
and bent down to hear what Erminie should have to say.

“Something to give me—” Erminie panted and stopped.

—“Strength, do you mean, my dear?” inquired Elfie.

Erminie nodded.

Elfie poured out some liquid from a vial into a spoon and put it to her
lips.

Erminie swallowed with difficulty, but seemed to be revived by the dose.

“Now, dear, go—and leave me—with my pastor—please,” she murmured.

And Elfie gave the purport of these words to the pastor, and then left
the room.

Erminie turned her fading eyes upon the anxious face of her old friend.

He stooped over her to hear what she might wish to say.

“Dear friend, must I die?” she whispered.

“I pray not—I earnestly pray not, my child,” answered the pastor, with
ill-suppressed emotion.

“But you believe that I must.”

“No, no—”

“Don’t try to deceive yourself or me, dear friend. You believe that I
must die. All the others seem to know that I must. I see it in every
face.”

“My child, my child, the Lord of Heaven and earth is also the Lord of
life and death. He is able to save to the uttermost the body as well as
the soul. Pray and believe and live,” said the pastor, trying to control
his agitation.

“I would rather submit myself to His will. I do not fear death. But——”

Erminie paused, her strength failed, her senses wandered for a moment,
her eyes filmed over, and her chin dropped.

Was it a swoon? Or was it death?

In great disturbance Dr. Sales poured some Cologne water upon a fresh
handkerchief, and bathed her head and face, and held it to her nose,
that she might inhale the reviving essence.

And in a few moments he had the comfort of seeing her draw a deep breath
and open her eyes. She did not know that she had fainted, for she took
up the sentence just where she had left it off.

“For the sake of others, I ought to know my condition, so as to arrange
my affairs.”

“My child, you are fatiguing yourself too much. Let me entreat you to be
quiet.”

“No; I must speak—while I can. I feel I have no strength to make any but
a verbal will. And Justin is not here. And so—you will listen to me.”

“Speak on, then, dear child, but take your time—do not weary yourself.”

And with many pauses and rests between her words, Erminie spoke.

“You know, dear friend, the large property left me by my uncles?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if I die without a will, Justin, as my heir-at-law, will come
into possession of the whole.”

“Certainly.”

“And I cannot make a will, but I know that I can trust my dear brother
to execute my wishes as conscientiously as if they were expressed in the
most legally drawn up testament that ever was framed.”

“Indeed you may, my dear,” replied the pastor, as he once more bathed
her face and head in the reviving Cologne water.

“Well, please tell Justin, then, my last dying wishes.”

The doctor took out his note-book and pencil to assist his memory, if
future need should be.

“I wish Justin to take one third of the whole of my property for
himself, and to give a second third to Britomarte Conyers, whom I feel
sure that he will eventually marry, and to give the remaining third—”

Dr. Sales wrote all this down in his note-book, and then looked up to
see why Erminie did not continue. And he saw that she had again grown
deadly faint.

“Oh, Father in Heaven! she is hastening her own death by all this
effort,” cried the pastor, in deep distress, as he threw down his
note-book and caught up a bottle of Cologne water and freely bathed her
face, head and hands.

Again she rallied, smiled, and pointed to the note-book, mutely begging
him to take it up and proceed with his work.

“My child, my child, you are too feeble for all this exertion. I must
insist upon your resting for awhile,” said Dr. Sales.

“Rest—long rest—will come very soon. But now—I must go on,” persisted
the sinking girl, pointing to the note-book.

Dr. Sales shook his head. Erminie turned on him an imploring look, and
her eyes filled with tears.

“You cannot resist the prayer of the dying, and the most important part
of my bequest is behind. The remaining third—”

Here, with a sigh, Dr. Sales took up his note-book.

—“The remaining third of my property I wish Justin to devote to the
relief of the aged and indigent mothers left destitute by the death of
their soldier sons.”

The pastor wrote this down and then looked up for further instructions.

“That is all,” said Erminie, simply.

Dr. Sales would willingly have inquired her reasons for making this
bequest to the mothers rather than to the widows and orphans of the war;
but he refrained from taxing her strength with an explanation.

She, however, saw the question in his face, and freely answered it.

“Every one thinks of the widows and orphans of the war. All the concerts
and fairs got up for the sufferers by the war are for the widows and
orphans. And this is right so far as it goes, for the widows and orphans
must be cared for. But no one thinks of the aged and indigent mothers
whose sons have fallen in battle. And this is all wrong; for these old
mothers are perhaps the greatest sufferers of all. The widow may find
another husband, and the orphan another father, but the desolate mother
who has lost her son in battle finds never another to fill his place in
the ‘aching void’ of her heart. Therefore will I try to relieve the
wants, if I cannot comfort the hearts, of the mothers.”

These last words were almost inaudible, and before they were well
uttered, the fair young saint had fainted quite away.

In the utmost distress Dr. Sales rang the bell, which brought Catherine
and Elfie to the room.

All the three used their best efforts to restore the swooning girl.

And after some time these efforts were rewarded with success.

The excitement of her interview with Dr. Sales had been far too great
for the strength of the sinking girl.

She recovered from her swoon of exhaustion, but it was only to pass into
a state of nervous restlessness, that speedily progressed into feverish
delirium and arose to raging frenzy.

Another awful night with the sufferer tried all the endurance of her
attendants.

It was late in the morning before the raving madness subsided and the
patient sank into a fatal coma.

The visit of the physician in the forenoon left not a hope in the world
for her life.

The minister came and prayed by her bedside, but she heard him not.

She lay in a stupor that every one felt must end in death.

“And her brother has not arrived!” exclaimed Elfie, wringing her hands.

“But she has left her last words for him with me,” said Dr. Sales.

The physician went away, feeling certain that at his next visit he
should see the white crape badge upon the door that should warn him a
bright young life had left the earth.

The minister remained in the room, watching with Elfie beside the
death-bed, and praying God for strength for all to bear the approaching,
overwhelming bereavement.

The house was kept very quiet—very unreasonably so, since nothing on
earth could now disturb the calm dreamer on the bed. But nevertheless it
_was_ kept so very quiet. Straw was laid before the line of garden wall
fencing the road, to deaden even at that distance the sound of passing
vehicles. The door-knocker was muffled and the wires of the bells were
cut. Locks and hinges were oiled. And every man and woman in the place
wore list slippers, and moved in silence and murmured in whispers.

Very, very still was the place. So that there was no warning of the
approaching traveller, until the door of the sick room softly opened and
Catherine crept in and whispered to Elfie:

“Mr. Justin has come.”

With the old familiar household servants Colonel Rosenthal was still Mr.
Justin.

Elfie started up, and signing to Catherine to take her place, slipped
out of the room and down stairs and passed into the library, where she
naturally expected to find Justin.

He was pacing silently up and down the floor. On her entrance he turned
quickly and demanded eagerly:

“How is she? How is she?”

“Oh, Justin!” exclaimed Elfie, dropping into a chair and bursting into
tears.

“Dead? dead?” cried Justin, breathlessly, starting towards her and
seizing her hand.

“Not yet! not yet! Oh, Justin!”

“But—dying?”

Elfie nodded her head and burst into heavier sobs.

Justin threw himself into a chair, covered his face with his hands and
groaned in anguish.

And so they remained a few moments—Elfie sobbing heavily, Justin
struggling for composure.

At length Elfie arose and with a still heaving bosom went to her
companion and said:

“You had better see her now—while—while she—while she still lives.”

“Is she conscious?” groaned Justin.

Elfie shook her head.

“Oh, how—_how_ did she take this fatal fever?” inquired Justin, as he
arose to follow his conductor.

“How? Can you doubt? By her unremitted devotion to the soldiers in the
hospitals. Oh, Justin, Justin! If ever yet a young saint won a crown of
martyrdom, your sister will. She visited the fever wards that every one
else except surgeons and nurses avoided. She ministered to scores of the
fever-stricken, and comforted and saved many. But now, you will see the
end.”

As Elfie murmured these last words they reached the door of Erminie’s
chamber, which had been left standing open for the freer ventilation of
the room.

“Come in,” said Elfie, leading the way.

Justin, with a depressed and reverend bearing, followed Elfie up to the
bedside of his sister.

Dr. Sales and Catherine were in attendance, but both silently made way
for the afflicted brother, who now stood gazing upon the wreck of his
beautiful only sister.

There she lay, still, white, cold and almost lifeless as marble.

Justin’s great frame shook with the terrible storm of sorrow that he
could not wholly repress.

For a few moments the venerable pastor held back in respect to the
sacredness of the brother’s grief. Then he went slowly to the side of
Justin, took his hand, and said:

“You know how much I feel with you. My grief and sense of loss is
scarcely less than your own. But we know also where to look for strength
to endure.”

Justin wrung the pastor’s hand in silence, and then sunk down in the
chair that some friendly hand had placed for him.

Leaving the three faithful guardians by the bedside of the sinking girl,
Elfie went down to have all manner of comforts and refreshments prepared
for the newly arrived brother. And then, when she had made everything
ready, she returned to the chamber of Erminie, and whispered to Justin
that his dressing-room was prepared, and that his luncheon would be put
upon the table as soon as he should be ready to eat it.

More for the purpose of getting away to indulge his sorrow in solitude
than for any other reason, Justin arose and left the chamber.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                          THE GHOSTLY VISITOR.

          Hushed were his angel’s lips, but still their bland
          And beautiful expression seemed to melt
          With love that could not die.—CAMPBELL.


“You should lie down and try to get some rest, my poor child. You look
quite worn out,” whispered Dr. Sales, looking compassionately on Elfie’s
thin, white face, and tremulous frame.

“I will, when Justin returns to the room. I must sleep an hour or two
this afternoon, so as to be able to watch with her through the night, if
indeed she should live so long,” assented Elfie.

And when Justin resumed his place by the bedside, Elfie retired to seek
her much needed sleep, warning them all to have her called if any change
should take place in Erminie.

It was as well Elfie went away when she did, for if she had remained in
the sick room five minutes longer, no one would have been able to
persuade her to go to rest.

For scarcely was the tired girl safe within her sanctuary, before old
Frederica came hobbling up stairs, and put her head into the door of the
sick room.

Justin arose softly and went to her.

“What is it, Frederica?” he asked.

“I want Miss Elfie.”

“She has gone to lie down. She must not be disturbed on any account. Can
I supply her place?”

“Well, she asked for Miss Elfie, sir. But if Miss Elfie can’t see her, I
suppose you can.”

“See—who?”

“Miss Conyers, sir.”

“MISS CONYERS!” exclaimed Justin.

And all the joy his sorrow could admit for companionship rushed into his
heart. But then came wonder and perplexity, and he repeated
slowly—“_Miss Conyers?_”

“Yes, sir, Miss Conyers, and she’s just offen a long journey, and she
looks completely wored out.”

“I will see her immediately,” said Justin.

And he stole to the bedside, whispered the news of the arrival to Dr.
Sales, and then he followed old Frederica from the room, and down the
stairs.

He opened the library door.

There stood Britomarte, sun-burned, dusty, travel-stained, almost
unrecognizable, but undoubtedly Britomarte.

“Britomarte! Miss Conyers!” exclaimed Justin, going towards her with
both hands stretched forth.

She met him and seized his hands as she exclaimed:

“How is your sister? How is my dear Erminie?”

“Oh, Britomarte! Oh, my friend, in what an hour of sorrow we meet!”

“She is—not gone?” hurriedly breathed Miss Conyers.

“No, not gone, but she is an angel prepared for Heaven, and she is
going,” groaned Justin.

“Oh, what is it? What is it that is killing her?” wept Britomarte.

Justin told her, as Elfie had told him:

“A malignant fever, caught in the hospital during her attendance upon
the sick soldiers.”

“Elfie? where is she? How is she?”

“Well, except that she is very much fatigued with incessant watching.
She is gone to lie down for a few hours.”

“And when can I see my dear Erminie?”

“At any time. Nothing disturbs her now. Would to Heaven it could. But I
warn you, dear Britomarte, that the sight will almost break your heart.”

“Take me to her, please,” said Miss Conyers, rising and taking off her
dusty bonnet and shawl.

Justin led the way up stairs to the chamber of death, and Britomarte
went up to the bedside and stood gazing upon the ruins of her beautiful
friend as Justin had gazed before; and the watchers now made way for her
as they had once made way for him; and after a few minutes Britomarte
sank, sobbing, upon her knees, and buried her head in the bedclothes.

They let her weep on undisturbed until the storm of grief had exhausted
its violence and left her quiet, and then Justin and Dr. Sales
approached, and each took a hand of hers, and they raised her from the
floor and placed her on the chair.

“Your grief is one that is shared by us all. All who knew and loved her
will be awfully bereaved. Only God can comfort us,” said the pastor,
gravely, as he pressed the hand of Miss Conyers.

At that moment old Frederica again appeared at the door, ushering in the
medical attendant.

The physician in solemn silence shook hands with Dr. Sales, Justin and
Britomarte, and then proceeded to examine his patient.

He lingered some fifteen or twenty minutes at the bedside with his
finger on her pulse, his eyes on her countenance, or his ear near her
lips—counting, watching, or listening for the ebb, or flow, or pause of
the currents of life.

At length he made his report: no change in the patient for better or
worse. He gave his prescriptions,—certain draughts and powders, to be
administered under certain contingencies; and he issued his orders to be
summoned immediately should any change take place in her, and then he
took leave and went away.

The afternoon passed off and no change took place in Erminie. She lay on
her bed, like a dead girl on her bier, or like a stone effigy on a tomb,
and her watchers sat around her motionless as statues.

As for Elfie, shut away in her distant room, she slept the deep sleep of
weariness until after sunset, when she awoke with a start, feeling
guilty that she had slept so long. Before even hurrying on her clothes,
she threw a large shawl around her and slipped down the back stairs to
inquire of Frederica about Erminie.

“She is still the same—no better, but no worse,” replied the
housekeeper. “And now, Miss Elfie, you had better go back to your room
and take a ’freshing bath; and by the time you are dressed, I will bring
you a cup of tea and a round of toast,” added old Frederica, wisely
suppressing the fact of Miss Conyers’ arrival, lest Elfie, in her
impatience to meet her friend, should deprive herself of the comfort and
refreshment so much needed.

So Elfie, ignorant of Britomarte’s presence in the house, took her bath
and afterwards her tea, and feeling refreshed and strengthened, went
immediately to the sick room, and walked directly to the bed where
Erminie still lay, a beautiful, white, motionless form, and where the
watchers still sat like statues.

In the absorption of all her thoughts with the subject of the sick girl,
Elfie had not noticed that there was a stranger present. She looked down
upon the marble face, pressed her lips to the cold mouth and the colder
brow, laid her hand upon the faintly beating heart, dropped fast tears
upon the quiescent form, and murmured:

“No change! no change! Oh, Heaven, will she pass away in this manner,
without recognizing any of her friends? What does the doctor say,
Justin?”

“He can give no decided opinion,” sighed the brother. Then, seeing that
Elfie’s attention continued to be so fixed upon the patient that she
entirely overlooked the visitor, he added:

“Elfie, do you see Miss Conyers?”

And Britomarte arose and held out her hand.

Elfie gave a start and uttered a cry that must have aroused any patient
not in a state of coma.

“You—you here! Where did you drop from? When did you come? Oh! but I am
so glad to see you; or I should be so, if I could feel glad of anything
now,” eagerly yet cautiously exclaimed Elfie, in half suppressed
excitement and a half smothered voice.

“I came last from Baltimore. I got here at two o’clock this afternoon,”
whispered Miss Conyers.

“At two o’clock! That was just when I laid down. Why didn’t they call
me?”

“We would not permit you to be disturbed,” said Britomarte.

“My dear Elfie,” said Justin, “Miss Conyers has arrived off a long and
dusty journey, and needs hospitable attentions of all sorts. May I ask
you to take my dear sister’s place as hostess, and do the honors of the
house to her?”

“Of course, of course,” hurriedly whispered Elfie; and she beckoned
Britomarte, who followed her from the room.

First Elfie gave orders to old Frederica to prepare a light repast for
the guest. And then she led Britomarte to a chamber up stairs, where she
supplied her with water, towels, and a complete change of clothes.

And afterwards, while Miss Conyers sat drinking tea, she poured into her
ear the history of her strange meeting with Goldsborough in the
hospital, and his tragic death.

Much of this Britomarte had heard before, by letters from Erminie; but
now she heard for the first time the full particulars of the affair.

Elfie then talked of Erminie and her fatal devotion to the sufferers in
the fever wards of the hospital, and the martyrdom in which that
devotion was about to end. And at that point she burst into tears.

“Take comfort,” said Miss Conyers. “I have watched her attentively for
the last five or six hours. And friends and physicians may all be
mistaken at last; and youth and constitution may eventually triumph.”

“Well, I hope so; or rather I would hope if I could,” sighed Elfie,
despondently.

And then they talked of other matters.

Elfie had her own theory, true or false, of Britomarte’s hidden life;
and so she forbore to ask Miss Conyers any questions about her manner of
existence.

And indeed in a little while they returned to the sick room, where the
beautiful Erminie still lay on her bed like a dead girl on her bier.

The gentlemen went down stairs to their late and comfortless dinner; for
meals were now very irregular in this house of woe.

After dinner Dr. Sales went away.

And that evening the watch for the night was arranged in this manner:

Elfie, having been refreshed by her long afternoon’s nap, was to sit up
from eight o’clock until two, and then she was to be relieved by
Britomarte.

Miss Conyers, being fatigued by her long journey, was to go to bed at
eight o’clock, and rest until two, when she was to rise and relieve
Elfie.

Accordingly, at eight o’clock Britomarte retired; and Elfie having drank
several large cups of strong green tea to keep herself wide awake, took
her seat in the big easy chair near the head of Erminie’s bed.

She had nothing to do but to think. She could neither read nor sew; for
there was no light in the room but the dim taper that burnt upon the
hearth. The whole house was very silent. The three gentlemen, Justin,
Major Fielding, Captain Ethel, were reading, or trying to read, in the
library below.

The two servants, old Frederica and Catherine, her niece, were seated in
their kitchen.

And the one man servant, old Bob, was dozing in a sort of porter’s chair
in the hall near the front door, to be easily within call.

Elfie looked forward wearily, drearily to her six hours of lonely
vigilance. Nothing but her love for Erminie could have borne through its
solitude and tediousness.

Even the first two hours, between eight and ten, when she had waking
company in the house, seemed awful in solitude and interminable in
tediousness.

All was so silent that she heard the sound of the very first footfalls
of the family preparing to retire, and it filled her with a strange,
nervous sense of desolation and dread.

First came the echo of the distant steps of the women servants going by
the back stairs to their rooms in the attic.

Next came the three gentlemen up the front stairs. They all paused at
the door of the sick room, to hear the last report of Erminie’s
condition before taking a final leave for the night.

Elfie went to meet them and gave her cheerless bulletin—“No change.”

Justin came in on tip-toes and gazed mournfully on his sister for a few
moments, and then kissed her pallid brow and stole away.

And the three gentlemen went up another flight of stairs, separated to
their several apartments and retired to bed.

Lastly Elfie heard Old Bob drag his mattress up the kitchen stairs and
along the hall to the front door, across which he laid it down; for
there, like a big watch-dog, he slept all night to guard the door, and
also to be at hand to let the doctor in should he call during the night
or very early in the morning. The tumbling rather than the laying down
of Old Bob on his mattress was the last social sound that Elfie heard to
keep her company.

After that all about the house was as still as the tomb. Though Elfie
hated snorers, now, so nervous and excitable did she feel, that she
would have been glad to hear Old Bob snore most sonorously. But
apparently the porter was a deep and silent sleeper.

Every five or ten minutes Elfie stooped over her patient; but the still
white face, so like the face of the dead, filled her with terror. She
could sometimes scarcely forbear screaming and running from the room.
But she controlled herself and watched on.

“What _has_ come over me?” she asked of herself. “I am naturally no
coward; and yet here I am listening and watching and starting as if I
expected to hear, or see, or suffer something hideous. Is it that I am
out of sorts through broken rest and irregular meals—fatigue of body and
anxiety of mind? Or is it the effect of the green tea? Or is it the near
proximity of death that gives all my surroundings a supernatural aspect
and throws over my spirit an atmosphere of awe and dread? I will walk
awhile.”

And so saying, Elfie arose and paced up and down the floor. Her feet,
cased in velvet slippers and walking over a soft carpet, made no noise.
So Elfie paced back and forth many times, until she had walked a mile or
two, if the distance had all been stretched out in a line.

Then when she had thoroughly fatigued herself, she sat down again in her
easy chair. Her act had been a very imprudent one; it had tired her and
made her sleepy. Indeed, she was just dropping off to sleep when the
striking of the clock aroused her.

It was a very softly, silvery sounding clock; but it was enough to
startle an irritable napper; and Elfie awoke with a spring, thinking
that she had very nearly fallen asleep; but having no idea that she
really had done so.

The clock chimed twelve.

And Elfie, to occupy her mind and keep herself awake, commenced quoting
poetry; another imprudent act, for however appropriate were the lines to
the time and scene, they were ill chosen for the occasion, because they
made her the more nervous, though not the less sleepy. The lines she
quoted were these:

           “’Tis now the very witching time of night,
           When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
           Contagion on the world.”

And so on to the end.

Before Elfie got to the end she had dropped asleep again, and she slept
on until she was once more aroused by the silvery striking of the clock.
It chimed “one,” and she sprang up with a guilty pang.

“Goodness! I had nearly been asleep again. One o’clock! well, the time
does pass. Only one hour more of this dreadful watch. I must try to keep
awake somehow. It will never do to let Britomarte catch me, a sentinel,
sleeping on my post. She is used to military discipline, and might take
it into her head that I ought to be shot. And indeed I think she would
be right. What a brute I am, even to feel like going to sleep beside
this dying angel!” exclaimed Elfie, rising and looking over her charge.

“No change—oh, no change, my poor, sweet martyr,” she said, as she
kissed the pale brow and then resumed her seat.

“Yes, I must keep awake somehow. Let me try more poetry, though nothing
but the horrible recurs to my memory to-night,” said Elfie, yawning.

                              “Now o’er the one-half world
              Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
              The curtained sleep; now witchcraft—”

Elfie lost herself, nodded forward, caught herself up and began again,
“Now witchcraft,” and nodded, and then resumed, “Witchcraft,” and then
she fell fast asleep.

Now what followed Elfie could never exactly account for, could never
even understand whether it were reality or “witchcraft,” indeed.

But this was what took place, or seemed to do so.

Elfie thought that she was again on the point of dropping to sleep, when
she became conscious that a tall, handsome, black-haired and
black-dressed man stood beside her. She seemed only half awake, and took
the man for Justin, and was about to speak to him, when she suddenly
recognized the Rebel General Eastworth, supposed to be then in the
entrenched lines of Charleston, helping to defend the city, but also
reported to have been killed in the last assault by the Union forces.

Before Elfie recovered from her astonishment so as to be able to call
out, the man, or the ghost, whichever it was, stretched forth his arm,
and placed a moist sponge, enveloped in a white handkerchief, to her
nose. And Elfie was at once exhilarated and overwhelmed by a strange,
delicious odor, that intoxicated her with a wild yet sweet delirium, and
deprived her of both the will and the power to change her position.

Sitting there, perfectly powerless, yet perfectly conscious, unable to
move or to speak, she yet heard and saw all that passed.

The tall man pinned the sponge in the handkerchief to her boddice
directly under her nose, so that, with her head resting on her breast,
she must continue to breathe the fumes.

Then he turned and dropped on his knees by the bed so as to bring his
dark, agonized brow nearer to the level of the beautiful pale face
pillowed there, and he kissed the cold lips passionately and wept.

“Oh! my dearest, my dearest, is it even so? I am here at the risk of my
life, of my honor, only to look upon your sweet eyes once more before
they are hidden forever in the grave, only to hear your gentle voice
speak forgiveness before it is hushed forever in death! But your eyes
are closed—your lips are mute—and your wings are already spread for
Heaven! Oh, Erminie! Erminie! how could I ever have weighed my mad
ambition against your holy love! Oh, my darling! my darling! that I
could offer up my life in ransom for yours! I would give my life to
restore you, my love!—nay, I would give my life merely to hear those
sweet silent lips speak one word—forgiveness!”

And here the strong man bowed his head upon the sides of the bed and
wept convulsively.

And now came the strangest part of the strange vision.

Elfie, witnessing all that occurred, as in a nightmare dream from which
she sought in vain to wake, saw also this strange phenomenon.

The white-robed form of Erminie slowly arose to a sitting posture; the
golden glory of her auburn hair fell around her like a halo; her face
shone “as the face of an angel;” she stretched forth her fair arms and
let her fair hands fall softly and slowly as snow-flakes upon the bowed
black head beneath them; and she murmured, in a grave, sweet, silvery
cadence:

“’Tis not for me to say the Heavenly word. But you sought me and I love
you. You saved my dear father from a dreadful doom, and I bless you. May
the Lord speak forgiveness to your soul, my love.”

Yes, to Elfie’s incredulous amazement, she who, for twenty-four hours,
had lain on her bed “like a marble girl on a marble slab,” incapable of
being moved to consciousness by the gentle words and caresses of her
only brother, or by the tender tears and kisses of her bosom friend, had
been stirred to life and roused to response by the passionate appeal of
her ghostly lover!

Simultaneously with this strange, discovery, there was a ringing as of
many bells in Elfie’s ears, a dancing as of many lights in Elfie’s eyes,
and the whole vision was whirled away from her in a delirious carnival
of glory.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
                            ELFIE’S VISION.

                           Say from whence
             You owe this strange intelligence
                           Speak, I charge ye!—SHAKSPEARE.


“Elfie! why, Elfie, wake up.”

It was the voice of Britomarte, speaking in a low but eager tone as she
gently shook the girl to rouse her.

Elfie yawned, stretched her arms, and gazed around in perplexity.

“Elfie! what, Elfie! asleep on your post! In the army we—I mean
they—shoot sentinels for such dereliction from duty,” said Miss Conyers.

“Ow—ow—ow!” gaped Elfie, “is he gone?”

“Gone! Who gone?”

“General Eastworth, or his fetch!”

“General Eastworth! You are dreaming, Elfie. Wake up! I wonder that you
should have allowed yourself to go to sleep.”

“I have not been asleep for one minute—not for one minute during my
whole six hours’ watch, though I have been near dropping off several
times; but I managed to keep wide awake,” said Elfie, with the usual
self-delusion of such drowsy delinquents.

“Why, Elfie, I found you sleeping so soundly that I could scarcely wake
you.”

“Ow—ow—ow!” yawned the culprit. “I tell you I have not been asleep one
instant. I have been chlo—ro—formed by General Eastworth. That’s what’s
the matter.”

“‘Chloroformed by General Eastworth!’ Why, Elfie, you are not even yet
awake. You are still dreaming and talking in your sleep. Rouse yourself,
girl!”

“Rouse myself, indeed. I never was so broad awake in the whole course of
my life as I have been within the last hour. My eyes have been stretched
so wide open with astonishment that I don’t believe I shall ever be able
to close them again. General Eastworth, or his fetch, has been here, and
Erminie has spoken with him. There—what do you think of that?”

“I think you are talking at random. I think you are still under the
influence of your dream. You must have been very far gone in the ‘land
of Nod’ to be so long in getting back again. It is well that your
patient has lain so quietly all this while as not to need your
attentions,” said Miss Conyers, in a rebuking manner. “I wonder how long
you slept. Can you remember what hour the clock struck last?” she
inquired.

“I should think I could,” replied Elfie, crossly, for she was irritated
at the incredulity of her friend—“I should just think I could! I was
broad awake, repeating a passage of Shakspeare to myself, suitable to
the time and circumstances, when I heard the clock strike ‘one,’ and at
the same time I saw standing by me—a man.”

“Nonsense, Elfie!”

“No, it was a man. First I thought it was Justin come in to ask after
his sister. And I looked up to speak to him, and then I
recognized——General Eastworth. The sight of him here, and at this hour,
took away my breath, and before I could recover it he chloroformed
me—not at first to insensibility, but to powerlessness. I could neither
move nor speak, but I saw and heard all that went on. The Rebel General
Eastworth has been here in this room within the last hour. And Erminie
has spoken with him.”

“Elfie, this is moonstruck madness.”

“No, it isn’t; it is truth and soberness. He bent over her, wept over
her, knelt by her bed and apostrophized her as one does the dead. And
she rose up and laid her hands upon his head, and blessed him and
forgave him. And then the whole scene passed from my senses to the
ringing of silvery bells and the flashing of Drummond lights. I suppose
the chloroform he had pinned under my nose produced its full effect, and
threw me into unconsciousness. But I have a very clear recollection of
what happened before. And I am willing to make an affidavit that General
Eastworth has been here, and that Erminie has spoken to him.”

“Good Heavens, Elfie, how can you be so utterly irrational? General
Eastworth is in the besieged city of Charleston, helping to defend it,
if he is not in his grave, as is reported. So it is clearly impossible
he could be here. And, Erminie, see for yourself. She is prostrate, as
she has been for many hours, without sense or motion.”

“So I hear you say. But I must believe the evidence of my own eyes and
ears for all that,” pouted Elfie.

“I think I can explain this, my dear. You say you heard the clock strike
‘one,’ and immediately saw the man at your side, and the strange play
began. Now I will tell you what probably happened. As the clock struck
‘one,’ you fell asleep. In the meantime, our doctor, returning from some
late professional visit, and knowing that old Bob was sleeping at the
hall door, called to see our patient. He was admitted, and came up into
the room, and you, half awakened by his entrance, and oppressed with
indigestion and nightmare—you would eat new cheese for supper, Elfie,
though I warned you not to do it—you imagined the harmless medical
attendant to be the Rebel General, and you dreamed the rest.”

“Well, if I did——! But what is the use of talking to you matter-of-fact
folks? You believe nothing that isn’t evident to your own senses. I
wonder you believe in the Christian Revelation!” angrily exclaimed
Elfie.

“Go to bed, my dear, and when you have had a good wholesome sleep, you
will rise in a better and more reasonable mood. And to-morrow we can
easily find out from old Bob if the doctor or any one else called during
the night. Come, Elfie, take my advice and retire,” recommended Miss
Conyers.

“‘Retire’ indeed! Do you think, after the supernatural horrors of this
night, I can retire and compose myself to sleep? No indeed!”

“Then if you remain here you must compose yourself to silence, my love.
I think I see a change coming over our patient and our talk may disturb
her.”

“Pray Heaven she may not be rising into another paroxysm of fever and
delirium. She could not outlive another attack,” said Elfie, quick to
take alarm.

“Be quiet, please,” whispered Miss Conyers.

And Elfie sat down on a low stool at the foot of the bed and said not
another word.

Miss Conyers took her place in the large easy chair beside the head of
the bed, from which position she could easily watch the countenance of
Erminie.

The clock struck three and the morning was coming on apace.

All was cool and quiet in the room; and another hour passed slowly by;
and in the sweet light of the early dawn the night taper on the hearth
burned dimly.

Miss Conyers arose and put it out. And then she went to the windows and
opened them all to let in the light and air of the lovely summer
morning.

Then she went to the bedside to examine the condition of her charge. And
she saw a change that caused her heart to leap for joy! a change for the
better, slight, but so decided that she knew the crisis had passed
favorably—that physicians and friends had all really been mistaken—that
youth and constitution had conquered, and that she, whom they had all
called the “dying girl,” was about to recover.

True, Erminie lay as still as she had lain for twenty-four hours; but
not as cold or death-like. Her face was calm; her flesh was soft, warm
and moist; and her breathing was low, gentle and regular.

“Thank God, thank God!” breathed Britomarte, sinking on her knees to
offer up this ovation of gratitude.

“What is it?” murmured Elfie.

“SHE WILL LIVE!” joyfully exclaimed Britomarte, rising from her knees.

“Oh, thank Heaven! Oh, what a happiness for Justin and for us all!”
exclaimed Elfie, in full sympathy.

“But now, my dear,” said Miss Conyers, “I must retire a little from the
bedside. Her coma has passed into healthful sleep, from which she will
presently awake. And when she does awake, she must not, just at first,
see me, whom she is not prepared to see by her bedside. The surprise
might hurt her.”

“Certainly, I will take your place here,” answered Elfie.

And they were about to effect the change, when a sweet, low voice stole
on their ears:

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, is that you, love? When did you arrive?”

And calmly, sweetly, naturally, Erminie turned her gentle eyes and held
out her thin hand to welcome her friend.

“My own best loved, my darling, my angel, I am so happy to see you
better,” murmured Miss Conyers, with tremulous tones and tearful eyes.

“And I—I am so very glad to see you, too. Have the servants attended to
your wants and made you comfortable? Is your room arranged to your
liking?” affectionately inquired Erminie, whose first thoughts on
recovering her consciousness were for the welfare of others. Her voice
was faint, but clear and calm and well sustained as she spoke.

“They have made me very comfortable, dear girl. Don’t disquiet
yourself,” replied Miss Conyers, tenderly stroking Erminie’s hair.

“I know the best regulated households will get out of order when the
mistress is ill. And I have been very ill; but, thank Heaven, I am
better now.”

“Yes, thank Heaven, you are better now, sweet friend.”

“And you are sure you have not been neglected?”

“Quite sure, dear. You know that Elfie has been ‘acting’ mistress during
your illness.”

“Yes, but I know that dear Elfie has been with me all the time in this
room. Whenever I have had a glimpse of consciousness I have seen her by
my bed. Dear Elfie!” continued Erminie, turning to her nurse—“dear, dear
Elfie, how shall I ever be grateful enough to you?”

“There shall be no such word as ‘grateful’ between you and me, Erminie.
Or, if there must be, it is I who must be grateful—first to the Lord for
giving me so dear a friend and continuing her to me; and next to you for
your love since childhood, and your protection since the war.”

“Don’t say that, Elfie,” said Erminie.

“Oh, my darling, I am so rejoiced that you are better!” exclaimed Elfie.

“So am I,” said Erminie, frankly. “I have something to live for now. And
I had rather live, if it please the Lord. _My father is living._”

As Erminie spoke these last four inexplicable words, Elfie started
violently, and even Britomarte changed countenance. They were both
alarmed. They both thought that Erminie had been talking too much and
had become dangerously excited, and that another paroxysm of fever and
delirium was imminent.

But this was not so. With Erminie convalescence had set in strongly and
decidedly, supported by her young and vigorous constitution. And when
the two girls looked again at Erminie they were reassured by her perfect
ease and quietness.

“Did you hear me say, girls, that my dear father is living?” she calmly
inquired.

“Yes,” said Miss Conyers, speaking with an apparent composure that was
very far from her real condition—“yes; but why do you think so?—I mean,
how do you know it?”

“I will tell you, dear, some other time. Now I do not feel equal to the
theme. And besides—Elfie, dear,” she said, turning to her nurse, “I am
so hungry.”

It was a “word and a blow,” for before Erminie had finished speaking
Elfie had whisked from the room.

And in ten minutes she returned with a little tray covered with a white
napkin, and a cup of weak green tea, and a round of delicate brown
toast.

Erminie drank the tea with a great enjoyment, and even ate a morsel of
the toast.

“I could drink another, only I do not think it would be prudent, and so
I will refrain,” she said, as she gently pushed away the tray.

“No, it would not be prudent, dear. When the doctor comes, we will ask
what you may take, and how much of it. And I only hope he may say you
may eat and drink as much as ever you like of whatever you fancy,” said
Elfie, as she removed the little service.

“Elfie, darling, did I dream I saw, or did I really see my dear brother
Justin by my bed?” inquired Erminie, with an effort at recollection.

“You really saw him, love. He is in the house,” replied Elfie, very much
relieved to find the way opened so easily for introducing Justin,
without too greatly surprising Erminie in her weak condition.

“I thought so. I had glimpses of consciousness when I saw you by my bed,
and that did not perplex me, because I knew, of course, that you were
always here. But sometimes, in those same glimpses, I seemed to see
Justin, and before I could confirm the impression, I was snatched away
again from all knowledge of surrounding things. When did he come?”

“Yesterday, a few hours before Britomarte’s arrival,” said Elfie.

“It is very early in the morning now?” inquired Erminie.

“The sun is just rising.”

“And Justin is not up yet. When he rises, let him know that I want to
see him. And now I must rest, please,” said Erminie.

Britomarte and Elfie between them raised her up. Britomarte supported
her, while Elfie turned and beat up the pillows, and straightened the
sheet. And then they laid her comfortably down, and made all tidy around
her while she fell asleep.

Then Catherine was called to watch the sleeper, while Britomarte and
Elfie went to make their morning toilets, and to take the early
breakfast of which they stood so much in need.

Meanwhile the news of Erminie’s convalescence spread through the house,
filling every heart with surprise and joy, for every member of the
household dearly loved the amiable young mistress.

Old Bob, taking up “Mr. Justin’s” hot water, gladdened the brother’s
heart with the intelligence of his sister’s rescue from the grave.

And Colonel Rosenthal hastened through his morning exercises, and
hurried down into the library, where he found Britomarte and Elfie at
breakfast.

“Is it true?” he eagerly inquired, as he joined them, and before even
tendering the conventional “Good morning.”

“Thank Heaven, yes. All danger is past,” replied Britomarte.

“Has the doctor said so?”

“The doctor has not been here this morning. But it needs no doctor to
tell that Erminie is raised from death,” said Elfie.

“Can I see her now?” inquired Justin.

“She knows you are here. She has asked to see you as soon as you should
be up and dressed. But she is sleeping now, and so you must wait until
she wakes. Meanwhile, you had better draw up your chair and take
breakfast with us.”

Justin followed this advice and seated himself at the table.

Domestic affairs were administered in a very easy, not to say loose
manner, since the illness of Erminie.

The members of the family and the guests came down to breakfast when
they were ready, and ate it when it was prepared, without waiting for
others.

Thus it happened that our family party were half through with the
morning meal before Major Fielding and Captain Ethel made their
appearance.

Hot coffee and hot chops were ordered for the new comers, who, after the
morning greetings, took their places at the table, and the meal
progressed.

Major Fielding and Captain Ethel were then made happy with the news of
Erminie’s convalescence.

“And the doctor is sure that all danger is past?” inquired Major
Fielding.

“We are sure that all danger is past, but the doctor has not seen her
this morning,” said Miss Conyers.

“I humbly beg your pardon, Miss,” said old Bob, who was waiting on the
table. “I humbly beg your pardon, Miss, but the doctor _have_ seen her
this morning. He have been here airly, very airly indeed, Miss—in fact,
before day.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Conyers, whose memory immediately reverted to
Elfie’s dream, or vision, and her own—Britomarte’s—version of it.

“Yes, indeed, Miss. He rousened me up outen my sleep to let him in.”

Miss Conyers here looked archly at Elfie, whose face exhibited a
curiously blended expression of mirth, relief and mortification; for she
was struck with the ludicrous aspect the affair now assumed, and she was
glad to have a supernatural mystery cleared up; but she was also ashamed
of the part she had played in the farce.

“Do you know at what precise hour the doctor came?” inquired Miss
Conyers.

“Yes, Miss. It must abeen ’bout ’tween one and two o’clock. Way I know
it is this: Just arter he came down stairs, and I let him out ag’in, I
heerd the hall clock strike two.”

“How long do you suppose he was up stairs?” inquired Miss Conyers.

“Well, nigh upon an hour I should say, Miss. You see I kept awake to let
him out.”

Britomarte looked at Elfie and burst into an irrepressible fit of
laughter.

Elfie pouted, sulked, and finally caught the infection and laughed
heartily for company.

“There seems to be some joke here that we of the masculine persuasion
are shut out from enjoying. Pray, may I, without indiscretion, inquire
into its nature?” asked Major Fielding.

And Justin and Ethel, by their looks at least, seconded the motion.

“It is Elfie’s secret,” laughed Miss Conyers.

“Well, you may tell it, Britomarte,” laughed also Elfie.

“It seems, then,” said Miss Conyers, “that this young lady had the
watch; that, wearied out with many days of lost rest, she fell asleep at
her post; and, having indulged in new cheese for supper, she had the
nightmare; and so, when the doctor paid his nocturnal visit, she took
him for the Rebel General Eastworth, and because she couldn’t wake,
imagined that he had chloroformed her to prevent her giving the alarm.”

And here Major Fielding burst into a laugh, in which he was joined by
Justin, Ethel, Britomarte and even Elfie.

But then their hearts were lightened of so great a load that it was easy
to rouse them to laughter.

After breakfast, Major Fielding and Captain Ethel, knowing that they, in
any case, would not be permitted to see Miss Rosenthal that day, and
feeling relieved of all anxiety on her account, went out to take a walk,
and transact some business that had been neglected during Erminie’s
illness.

As soon as Erminie was awake, and had been refreshed by ablutions and a
change of dress, Justin was summoned to her room.

He found her lying on her bed, with her head raised by many pillows,
looking wan, fair and transparent, and yet so much better than she had
seemed the day before.

Repressing his strong feelings he advanced to her bedside, stooped over
her and kissed her gently, saying softly:

“My dear Erminie! my dear, dear sister! how thankful to Heaven I am to
find you so much improved.”

She put her arms around his neck, and drew him closer to her heart, and
returned his fond kiss; but all in silence.

Very quiet was the interview between this devoted brother and sister.

“I am so happy having you here, sitting by me and holding my hand,”
whispered Erminie, with her fingers clasped in his.

“And I am so happy to be here, and to see you so much better,” murmured
Justin.

“When you left us you wore a captain’s straps; now you wear the
colonel’s eagle,” said Erminie, proudly.

“Yes, dear sister; and my greatest pride in wearing them is that they
give you pleasure.”

“You will have a general’s star before long.”

“I will try to earn them for your sake, sweet sister.”

“Have you seen much of Britomarte?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do you know where she lives, what she does?”

“She has told me nothing, dear, of her residence or occupation. She
keeps her secret,” answered Justin, rather evasively.

But Erminie was not extreme to mark the flaws in his reply. She started
another subject.

“Justin,” she said, “I am sure our dear father lives.”

“Heaven grant that he may, my dear,” said Justin, humoring what he
supposed to be the fancy of a weak invalid, but recollecting with a pang
the body removed from its humble grave on the battle-field of Bull Run,
and interred in the family burial lot in the cemetery at Washington.

“I am not strong enough now to tell you how I know this; but I will
explain it in a day or two.”

“You shall take your own time, love,” said Justin.

So quietly they conversed together until the entrance of the doctor.

He had been received by poor, old, stupid Frederica, who had omitted to
tell him the good news about his patient, probably under the impression
that he was fully aware of Erminie’s condition. And he had not made the
usual inquiry of “How is Miss Rosenthal this morning?” because he shrunk
from asking the question until he should reach the sick room. He had not
seen the other members of the family, and so he came into Erminie’s
presence all unenlightened as to the favorable change in her condition.

And the first thing he saw was Erminie, propped up on pillows,
conversing cheerfully with her brother.

“Bless us! here is a change!” he exclaimed, with a smile, as he walked
up to the bedside. “How are we this morning?” he asked, taking the chair
vacated for him by Justin, and feeling the pulse of his patient.

“Getting well as fast as possible, Doctor,” smiled Erminie.

“Yes, yes, we are getting well fast! We can relish a little chicken
broth this morning, can we not?”

“I think we can,” she answered.

“And a half a glass of port wine. And to-morrow it may be a whole
glass.”

Erminie nodded.

“She will require no more medicine, only careful nursing and dieting,”
said the doctor, turning to Justin.

“I am very glad to hear you say so, Doctor Burney. Did you see
indications of this favorable change when you visited her early this
morning?”

“Early this morning? I have not been here before this morning,” said the
doctor, in some surprise.

“Well, then, in the night, perhaps, I should rather say; as it was but a
little past one o’clock when you called,” said Justin, correcting
himself.

“I called!” repeated the doctor.

“Between one and two in the night,” explained Justin.

“My dear sir, you are mistaken! I have not been here since six last
evening,” said the doctor.

“Indeed! Then who——” began Justin; but he immediately caught up his
words. Here was a mystery; but it would never do to worry Erminie’s mind
with it. So he paused.

“Whatever could have made you think I was here in the night?” inquired
the doctor.

“It was a mistake, either of mine or somebody else’s,” evasively replied
Justin.

“But who said I was here?” persisted the doctor.

“One of the servants, I believe, fancied that you had called.”

“Which one?”

“Old Bob.”

“Oh, ah, he dreamed it! I was six miles from here between one and two
o’clock. I was out at a diabolical old place called Witch Elms,
attending the death-bed of an antediluvian old woman, named Miss Pole.”

While Colonel Rosenthal and Doctor Burney conversed together, Erminie
listened attentively, turning towards each as he spoke. Occasionally an
arch smile played over her expressive features, as though she thought
she could, if she pleased, explain the mystery that so puzzled her
physician and her brother. But when she heard the name of the old lady
at Witch Elms, she said:

“I knew Miss Pole slightly. She was the great grand-aunt of my dear
friend, Miss Conyers. I called at Witch Elms once. The reminiscence is
not a pleasant one. Still I hope the old lady was well prepared for the
last great change.”

“I doubt it,” said the doctor. “She died very much as I imagine she had
lived. And she left me two very strange commissions. The first was to
deliver into the hands of Britomarte Conyers a certain packet not to be
opened until after her funeral. The second was to forbid Miss Conyers
from attending that funeral. I shall discharge both, before leaving the
house this morning.”

“Strange commissions, indeed. But then Miss Pole was a very strange
woman.”

“Yes. And now, my dear Miss Rosenthal, I think you have talked long
enough. A new convalescent, like a newborn babe, has but two great
duties to perform—to eat and sleep alternately. Here comes our good
Catherine with your chicken broth. So we will now leave you to discuss
_that_, the most wholesome subject that can occupy your thoughts just
now.

And so saying, the doctor smiled and bowed and walked out of the room,
accompanied by Justin.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                             BOB’S SPECTRE.

               It was about to speak when the cock crew,
               And then it started like a guilty thing
               Upon a fearful summons.—SHAKSPEARE.


“Come into the library, if you please, Dr. Burney. I wish to send for
old Bob, and confront him with you, and clear up this mystery of the
midnight visitor,” said Justin, leading the way to the favorite room.

“Nonsense, my young friend. There is no mystery in the matter. Our
honest old Bob supped off pork chops and had the nightmare and dreamed
of a visitor,” laughed the doctor, as he followed the colonel.

“These two persons of very opposite characters and positions must have
had the nightmare at the same time and dreamed the same dream,” said
Justin, as he opened the library door.

When the two gentlemen entered this favorite room, they found Britomarte
and Elfie, waiting for the termination of the doctor’s visit to Erminie
before they should return to her side.

They now arose and received the doctor’s greetings and congratulations
upon the convalescence of their friend, and then they were about to
withdraw, when Justin stopped them.

“Remain, if you please, for a few moments, young ladies. I am about to
call up old Robert and confront him with Dr. Burney and investigate this
affair of the nocturnal visitor,” he said.

“But I thought that was already settled. It was the doctor who came in
the night, was it not?” inquired Britomarte.

“No, my dear Miss Conyers, whoever it was, it was not the doctor,”
replied the gentleman in question.

Justin rang the bell, and old Bob answered it.

“Sit down, doctor. Young ladies, pray resume your seats,” said Justin,
as he set the example by placing himself in a chair.

Bob stood in the door, waiting orders.

“Come here,” said Colonel Rosenthal.

The man obeyed, looking puzzled and frightened and very much like a
prisoner who was arraigned and who expected to be found guilty.

“Now tell us who it was that you let in last night.”

“The doctor there, sar,” answered Bob, without a moment’s hesitation.

“My good friend, you never were more mistaken in your life. I can prove
an alibi. I was six miles from the spot at the hour you admitted the
visitor,” said Dr. Burney.

Old Bob’s jaws dropped and his eyes opened.

“Is that so, sar?” he asked, in a piteous tone.

“Yes, that _is_ so. Now try to recollect yourself and reflect whether
you did not fall asleep and dream the whole thing.”

“No, marser! no, sar! it might a been de debbil, or it might a been a
ghost, or it might a been a token of my death, but it warn’t no dream.
Dis chile war too wide awake for dat!” exclaimed Bob, as his hair seemed
to straighten out with a retrospective terror.

“Now see you here, Bob. Look at me, and tell me really whether the
person you admitted, or think you admitted, resembled me,” said Dr.
Burney.

“Lor’ forgive me, Marse Doctor, now I does look at you, sar, and calls
up my memorandum, it seems to me as the—the—_other one_—was more taller
and more darker complected than you is, sar. It must a been a spirit,
sar, come to warn me as my days war numbered,” shuddered the old man.

“Fudge, old fellow! All our days are numbered, for that
matter.—Colonel”—and here the doctor turned to address Justin—“you said
that there was another witness in this case—who was it?”

“Elfie,” said Justin, “have I your permission to speak?”

“Yes, certainly,” replied the young lady addressed.

“Well, then, Mrs. Goldsborough was the other witness. At the same hour
at which old Bob admitted the mysterious visitor, Mrs. Goldsborough was
watching by the bed of my sister, when she was suddenly aware of the
presence of a man by her side. Taking him at first to be myself, she was
about to speak, when, on looking closer, she recognized, or _thinks_ she
recognized, the Rebel General Eastworth, supposed to have been killed at
Charleston.”

“I am quite certain I recognized him,” put in Elfie.

“Well, then, she is quite certain she recognized him. She was at first
so stupefied with astonishment that she could not call out. And before
she could recover her self-possession and give the alarm, he applied
chloroform to her nostrils, and deprived her of the power of moving and
speaking, although not of hearing and seeing.”

“I heard and saw everything that occurred in the first few minutes of
his presence there,” added Elfie.

“She asserts that he spoke to my sister, succeeded even in arousing her
attention, and calling her back to full, though transient consciousness,
and gaining her forgiveness and her blessing.”

“And by that time,” added Elfie, “the chloroform that he had secured
under my nostrils so completely overcame me, that I knew nothing more
until Britomarte aroused me.”

“And is that all?” inquired the doctor.

“Yes, and enough, too, I should think,” answered Elfie.

“And what is your opinion of all this, Colonel?” inquired the doctor.

“I am perplexed beyond measure, and as yet can form no possible opinion.
General Eastworth has been in Charleston, South Carolina, for the last
twelve months. He is reported to have been killed within the last week.
I can make nothing of it.”

“_I_ am not perplexed. _I_ can make something of it. I believe that
General Eastworth is in Washington city in disguise, that he has become
acquainted with the notorious fact of Erminie’s illness, and also with
the less well known facts of the doctor’s frequent night calls, and old
Bob’s position in the front hall, to open the front door at all hours,
and I believe that he boldly ventured in to see his once betrothed.
Bosh! who do you think is a fool? Didn’t I see and hear him with my own
eyes and ears? True, I was staggered in my conviction of identity when
old Bob insisted that it was the doctor he let in; but now that the
doctor says it was not he, I am convinced it was General Eastworth, and
that General Eastworth is now in Washington city, as a spy, most
likely,” said Elfie, with great positiveness.

“Pray, have you read the morning papers, Miss—I beg your pardon—Mrs.
Goldsborough?” emphatically inquired the doctor.

“I have not,” said Elfie; “why?”

“Nor you, colonel?” he next asked of Justin.

“I have glanced over them only. We have all been too much occupied with
my sister to read them with much attention or interest,” replied Justin.

“Then probably this little paragraph, concerning the gentleman we have
been discussing, has escaped your attention.”

“What is it?” inquired Elfie.

“Read it,” said Justin.

The doctor opened the paper he held in his hand and read:

“THE REBEL GENERAL EASTWORTH.—The report of the death of this notorious
leader is undoubtedly well founded. The Reverend Doctor Robinson,
returned from Charleston under a flag of truce, confirms the tale. On
the morning of the twelfth instant General Eastworth, while riding along
the eastern defences of the city, was instantly killed by a shell from
one of our gun-boats.”

“There,” said the doctor, folding up the paper—“what do you think of
that?”

No one answered. Every one seemed dumb-foundered.

Old Bob was the first to break the silence. Seeing amazement on every
face, he gasped out:

“Wha—wha—wha—wha—what does all dat mean?”

“It means that you let in a ghost, Uncle Bob!” exclaimed Elfie,
mischievously.

“Wha—wha—wha—what ghost?” stammered the old man, with chattering teeth,
starting eyes, and ashen cheeks.

“The ghost of the Rebel General Eastworth, who was killed in
Charleston,” said Elfie.

“Oh, my Lor’! my Lor’! my Lor’! I’m a dead nigger!” exclaimed old Bob,
with all the superstitious terrors of his race strong upon him.

“You may leave the room, Bob,” said Colonel Rosenthal.

And the old man hurried away to tell the wonderful story in the kitchen,
and then to betake himself to his prayers.

“Now, then, Mrs. Goldsborough, what do you say?” inquired the doctor.

“I say that I am of the same opinion still. I believe that story of
General Eastworth’s death to be a mere canard, or more than that, a
stratagem to cover his surreptitious visit to Washington. I tell you I
saw and heard him with my own eyes and ears; and I am willing to go
before the provost marshal and lodge the information under oath, that
the great Rebel general was in Washington city, and in this house, last
night between the hours of one and two! If you think my story wants
confirmation, let Justin question his sister as to who her visitor last
night was. I was strongly tempted to do so myself; but I refrained from
consideration for Erminie’s weak state. But let Justin question her
now.”

“Thanks—no, if you please,” said the doctor, emphatically—“not with my
sanction. Colonel Rosenthal and ladies, I must earnestly request you not
even to allude to this strange event in my patient’s hearing. In every
point of view, the subject would be a dangerously exciting one to her.
But I strongly advise you to have the cash-box and plate chest examined,
and a detective policeman sent for. With all respect for your opinion,
Mrs. Goldsborough, I must believe that an accomplished burglar has found
his way into the house, and probably effected a robbery.”

And with these words the doctor turned to Miss Conyers, silently placed
a packet and letter in her hands, took up his hat, shook hands with his
friends, and went away.

“It will do no harm to follow his advice, Elfie,” said Justin, touching
the bell once more. “We will see if there is anything missing. If there
has been a robbery, it will be clear that the strange visitor was a
burglar. If there has been no robbery, there will be no harm in your
going to the provost marshal and giving the information as you suggest.”

Old Frederica answered the bell, and apologized for presenting herself
by saying:

“If you please, sir, black Bob, he’s not in a fit state to come; he’s
perfectly glowered with the fright.”

“Never mind, Frederica; you’ll do. We have reason to suspect that a
robber got into the house last night. Have you missed anything?”

“Lor’, sir, no—not a thing.”

“Make a thorough search; and especially make a careful examination of
the plate chest; and then come and report to me.”

Frederica left the room to obey.

And then the group broke up.

Justin went to look to the iron chest where money and documents were
kept.

Britomarte, with a face paler than usual, withdrew to examine the letter
and parcel placed in her hands by the doctor.

Elfie went back to the chamber of Erminie.

Meanwhile a thorough search was made of the premises. Not an article was
missing. No robbery had been perpetrated. No vestige of a robber was to
be found. And the mystery thickened.

When Elfie came out of Erminie’s room, she found Justin on the watch for
her.

“Come here, my dear girl,” he whispered, withdrawing her out of earshot
of Erminie’s attendants. “I am inclined to be of your opinion in this
matter. The result of our investigation is that no trace of a burglar
can be found. Therefore I think your conjecture as to the presence of
General Eastworth in the city, and his identity with the mysterious
visitor of last night, may be founded in truth. His intimate knowledge
of the interior arrangements of our house would certainly favor his
visiting it in that secret manner.”

“When I discovered that the visitor was not the doctor, I was convinced
that it was Eastworth who came. I have not had a doubt about the matter
since,” said Elfie.

“Then you had better come with me and give information at the provost
marshal’s office directly.”

“Bless my soul and body! Well, I said I was willing to go, and I’ll go;
but now it comes to the point I don’t like the office at all,” said
Elfie, as she hurried off to get her bonnet and mantle.

In a few minutes Justin took her out in a carriage to do the
disagreeable duty he had recommended. They were gone but an hour, at the
end of which Elfie returned in rather a bad humor, and Justin with a
very grave face.

They had both been subjected to a close cross examination.

Elfie threw off her bonnet and mantle, and hurried into the room of
Erminie, whom she found quietly sleeping.

Catherine had the watch.

“Where is Miss Conyers?” inquired Elfie.

“I don’t know, ma’am. She hasn’t been in this room since breakfast.”

“Strange! I’ll go and look for her,” said Elfie, rising, to leave the
chamber.

But at the door she met Britomarte, in a travelling dress, and looking
very pale and haggard.

“For Heaven’s sake, what is the matter?” exclaimed Elfie, starting back.

“Is Erminie awake?” inquired Miss Conyers, disregarding her friend’s
question.

“No; but what is the matter with you, Britomarte?”

“I have had news that will compel me to leave you to-day.”

“To leave us to-day!”

“Yes; but I must wait until Erminie awakes to take leave of her.”

“Woman of mystery! what is your news and where are you going?” exclaimed
Elfie, half in pity half in mirth.

“You must excuse me from explaining, Elfie. You know, for I have told
you, that there is a secret in my life. You must respect it,” said
Britomarte, gravely.

“There is more than one secret, I imagine. Well, I will respect them
all, Britomarte,” said her companion.

While they spoke, Erminie awoke, very much refreshed by her nap.

“How do you feel, dearest?” inquired Miss Conyers.

“Very well—full of returning life. But you—you look pale and sad,
Britomarte. What troubles you?” anxiously inquired Erminie.

“The duty of leaving you immediately, my darling. No, do not say a word
to hinder me, love. You know that nothing but the most absolute
necessity could induce me to go now; and that I must go,” said Miss
Conyers, seeing that her friend was about to expostulate.

“Well, well, I must submit, I suppose! but you will come back soon?”
sighed Erminie.

“As soon as possible, love! And now God bless you, darling, and send you
a full and speedy recovery!” said Miss Conyers, stooping and kissing her
friend.

“And God keep you in all your ways, my best beloved,” breathed Erminie,
returning the caress.

“Good-bye, Elfie!” said Britomarte, as she wrung Elfrida’s hand and left
the room.

On her way to the library to seek Justin, she met him in the hall.

“Good-bye, Justin!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand.

“What!” he cried.

“Good-bye!”

“You don’t mean it!”

“Yes, I do!”

“Where are you going?”

“About my business, Justin,” sadly smiled Miss Conyers.

“But—excuse me!—What business?”

“That is my secret, if you please, Justin”

“Pardon my impertinence,” said Colonel Rosenthal, with a mortified air;
“but I hoped to speak to you, Britomarte, on that one subject which day
and night has occupied my thoughts since I first met you!” he said,
taking her hand and seeking to detain her.

“Let that subject rest, if not forever, at least till after the war is
over.”

“And then?”

“Then we may neither of us wish to resume it.”

“Britomarte, are you not wantonly trifling with my happiness and yours?”

“I have no time for ‘trifling’ of any sort. It would be well, besides,
if we thought a little less of ‘happiness,’ and a little more of duty.
Justin, my carriage is waiting to take me to the station, where I must
not miss the train. Good-bye!” said Britomarte, withdrawing her hand
from his clasp.

“No, let me see you to the station, at least,” said Justin, taking his
hat, opening the hall door, and escorting her to the carriage, into
which he followed her.

They caught the train just before it started.

Miss Conyers had no luggage but a hand-bag, and therefore she was the
more easily enabled to get into her seat in the ladies’ car in time.

Justin bade her a hasty adieu, and returned home.

                  *       *       *       *       *

As soon as Erminie was convalescent Justin took leave of her and
returned to his regiment. And in the course of a few weeks, two or more
of our young friends went to the front—little Mim as a volunteer, and
Mr. Billingcoo as a drafted man.




                              CHAPTER XL.
                          ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

          ’Twas the battle-field, and the starless night
            Hung dark o’er the dead and the dying,
          And the wind passed by, with a dirge and a moan,
            Where the young and the brave were lying.—L. E. L.


It was the night after the terrible battle of Cold Harbor. Both armies
had fallen back. The dead and wounded lay where they had dropped. Among
the latter was Colonel Rosenthal, who had been struck down while
charging in front of his regiment. Young Wing, at the hazard of life and
even of dearer honor, went in search of his colonel. Wandering in the
darkness over that field of blood, he came suddenly upon a fallen horse
and rider, and knew by the instinct of affection that he had found whom
he sought.

“Is that you, Wing?” hoarsely whispered a feeble voice, as the young
officer threw himself down on the ground.

“Yes, yes, my colonel, it is I,” sobbed Wing.

“How did you find me, my boy, on this chaotic field, under this dark
sky?”

“How? Oh, how does the faithful dog find his fallen master amid such
confusion? I saw you when you fell. I noticed where you lay. I could not
come to you in the hurly-burly of that charge—”

—“Ah! a gallant charge, Wing! a glorious charge! It was fine to fall in
such a charge as that!”

“Yes, my Colonel. But I have come to help you now. How can I do so?
Where are you hurt?” said Wing, groping about, and feeling man and horse
under his hands.

“I do not know where I am hurt, Wing. But the horse has fallen on me,
partly,” groaned the colonel.

“Stay! if I can find a musket or a carbine—and there must be many
scattered over this field—I can use it as a lever and raise the weight
from you, my Colonel,” said Wing, moving about in search of the
instruments required.

In his motions he touched with his feet what he supposed to be the dead
body of a soldier. And he elicited a deep prolonged groan.

“Ah! I am so sorry! did I hurt you?” tenderly inquired Wing, stooping to
address this new claimant of his sympathy.

“Oh, no—only roused me,” moaned the wounded boy.

“Can I do anything for you?” asked Wing.

“Water! water!”

Wing had a canteen filled with water, and he took the stopper off and
put it to the mouth of the boy, who drank greedily.

“That was good! Now I can die comfortably. Friend, are you Yank. or
Secesh?”

“Yank.,” said Wing.

“Well, never mind. What are we fighting for, I wonder? I’m Secesh. Put
your hand—in my bosom, Yank. Take out a powder-flask cover that you will
find there. My sister worked it and gave it to me before I left home to
join the army. Keep it, Yank.——”

“I will keep it for your sister and send it to her if you will tell me
where she lives,” said Wing.

“Her name is Ellen Jenkins. She lives—” And here the speaker’s voice
failed.

“She lives—?” said Wing, listening attentively.

—“In Rich—in Rich—” panted the dying boy.

Wing snatched a flask of brandy from his bosom and placed it to the lips
of the young soldier.

Too late! There was but the gurgling death rattle in his throat. He
could neither swallow nor articulate.

“Do you mean to say that she lives in Richmond?” gently inquired Wing,
taking the hand of the boy, who closed his fingers upon the hand of Wing
and nodded earnestly.

And the next moment all was over.

Wing sighed and turned the young soldier on his back, and straightened
out his limbs and closed his eyes, placing two pennies upon the lids to
keep them down.

While performing these last offices he had several times touched a
carbine that lay beside the dead boy.

How he took it up and returned to the spot where Justin Rosenthal lay
partly under the burden of the horse.

“Oh, my Colonel! I have been away so long! But I found a dying soldier,
moaning for water, before I found the carbine. And I had to minister to
his wants, and even receive his last breath and close his eyes, before I
could come back to you,” said Wing.

“You were right, my boy. But now the wind has risen a little and blown
the fog away. Can you see where to place the end of the carbine so as to
raise the weight of the horse from my limbs?”

“Yes, my Colonel, I can,” said Wing, poking the end of the weapon under
the body of the horse that lay directly across one of Justin’s limbs,
and prying it up a little way.

“There—that is already a great relief. A little higher—raise it a little
higher, Wing, and I shall be able to draw my limb from under it and
crawl away,” said Justin.

And Wing put forth all his strength, and pryed up the weight, and lifted
it clear of the crushed limb beneath it, and held it so, until Justin
Rosenthal crawled away.

Then Wing let the dead horse drop to the ground, while he rushed to his
colonel.

A danger that neither had dreamed of was now threatening the life of
Justin Rosenthal.

It appeared that the Minie ball which had killed his horse under him had
also passed through his own leg, severing some important vein or artery.
The dead weight of the horse falling upon this limb, had closed the
orifice, and stopped the bleeding. But now, at the removal of the
weight, the wound burst out again, and the life-stream of the man was
running fast away. He lay panting, fainting, almost dying, when Wing
came up to him.

“My Colonel! oh, what is the matter?” inquired Wing, in a voice
vibrating with anxiety.

“I think that I am dying, Wing. But come here, boy. Come close. Stoop
down and listen to me.”

“But what is it? oh, my Colonel, what is it? Where is your wound? What
can I do for you?” wailed Wing, weeping like a woman and wringing his
hands.

“I think that the femoral artery is severed, Wing, and that I am
bleeding to death.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” groaned Wing.

“Cease lamenting, dear boy. Mine is but a soldier’s fate. How
egotistical to bemoan it. Only remember, Wing, and tell my dear sister
that I fell in the glorious charge of Wilson’s cavalry at Cold Harbor.”

“I will tell her! I will tell her! But I cannot give you up! I WILL not
give you up! You must not die! You SHALL not die! Where is this severed
artery? I will pinch it together with my fingers until I stop the
bleeding, and I will hold it so all night and all day, and many nights
and days, if necessary, until surgical relief comes to you!” cried Wing.

“Ah, my boy, you must hurry from this spot. Every hour that you stay
here is fraught with death. You are actually within the rebel lines,
Wing. How you ever succeeded in getting here undetected I cannot
imagine, unless both chance and the darkness of the night favored you.
But now, my boy, you must receive my last message for one I love, and
you must hurry back before daylight betrays you to the enemy and to
captivity,” said Colonel Rosenthal, gravely.

“Where is your wound? oh, where? Help me to find it, that I may stanch
the blood,” said Wing, feeling blindly about the body of his colonel.

“Well, well, here, if you will have it. Here, in my right leg,” answered
Justin, in a voice that was every instant falling fainter.

Wing felt the leg of the trowsers soaked in blood; he snatched his
dagger from his belt, and ripped it up, so as to get to the wound. And
he took his handkerchief, and bound it around the limb just above the
knee, and drew it as tight as possible, and tied it fast, and so he
checked the fast flow of blood.

“Thanks, Wing. Thanks, my dear boy. I think you have helped me for the
present. Now hear my last message to one I love, and then turn and
fly—save yourself,” said Justin, solemnly.

“Tell me, then, your last message. What is it?” inquired Wing.

“Say to my beloved sister that I fell leading on my regiment in Wilson’s
glorious charge at Cold Harbor. Say if I could have chosen the manner of
my death, I would have chosen this. Bid her bestow my property on the
bereaved of this war—the bereaved of both sides. For the widows and
orphans and old mothers of the rebel soldiers are as much to be pitied
as those of our own. Bid her, when the war is over, to open wide her
heart and home for the returning prodigals. Bid her do all she can, in
her limited woman’s way, to heal the wounds of the country, to reconcile
enemies, and to bring back peace. And give her my love and my blessing.
Will you remember to deliver all this message, Wing?”

“Oh, yes! I will! I will! But is this the _only_ message you have to
send?” sobbed Wing.

“The only one,” answered Justin.

“And is there _no other_—_no other_ that you remember in this awful
hour—none to whom you would wish to send a parting word?” wept Wing.

“None—there is none!” answered Justin solemnly.

“No woman as dear, or dearer than a sister, to whom you would like to
send some—some last word of love? oh, speak, if there be, and I will
bear your message faithfully, sacredly, silently, until I meet with her
for whom it is intended! Oh, think! oh, speak! is there _none_—_none_
but your sister to whom you would send such a message?” pleaded Wing.

“There is none!” answered Justin, solemnly. “Beyond this field of blood,
there is none but my sister to whom I care to send a message.”

Wing sat down and wept convulsively.

After a little while Justin put out his hand, and taking that of Wing
pressed it, and drew it to his lips and kissed it, and said:

“_Britomarte!_”

With a violent start the hand was snatched away, but almost immediately
it was returned and re-clasped.

“Britomarte—now in this supreme hour—now, with my life-blood oozing
slowly but surely away—with my hours nay, my very minutes numbered—may I
venture to recognize you and call you by your name?—may I venture to
confess that I recognized you from the beginning?” he pleaded, still
holding and caressing her hand.

“Justin! Justin, my beloved! my beloved!” exclaimed Britomarte, whom we
shall no longer call by her assumed name of Wing. And she dropped her
head upon his bosom and sobbed aloud. He folded his arms around her, and
she sobbed until her passion of grief had exhausted itself. Then she
raised her head and wiped her eyes.

“I am dying, Britomarte! that is nothing; a soldier’s fate—no more. But
stoop, my darling, and put your lips to mine, and give me the kiss—the
kiss that my heart has hungered for through all these weary years!” he
pleaded.

She stooped and pressed her lips to his in long, clinging, passionate
kisses, murmuring between them:

“If you die, I die with you, Justin! I can not survive you, my beloved!
I feel my heart sinking with your ebbing life! But oh! that we had our
days to live over again! oh, that we had! I would not then repulse your
dear love, Justin; I would not! I would not! Ah! how could I have been
so unwomanly, so inhuman, as to repel such a heart as yours. Oh, live,
Justin! live, that I may undo the work of years, and make you happy if I
can!”

“My dearest! if anything could make me live in this world, it would be
your love, that makes me so happy. But if I die here, Britomarte, we
shall live in another and a better world, where all mists shall be
cleared from our vision—where we shall know each other as we are, and
love each other eternally,” he said, gently caressing her.

“Oh, try to live!—to live in _this_ world yet a little while, dear
Justin. There is a great deal in trying, you know. Pray to the Lord to
help you! Ah, do not cheat yourself out of your beautiful youth-time on
this dear earth! The other world may be bright enough, but it is not
_this_ sweet, familiar earth! Ah, try to live, dear Justin! let me look
at your wound. It has ceased to ooze! it has indeed, dear. The blood is
coagulated all around the binding. You WILL live if you only make a
strong effort,” urged Britomarte.

Her words were like the elixir of life. They put new strength into the
sinking man.

“If it depends upon me, my dearest one, I shall not die! I will try to
live, Britomarte, since life holds out the promise of so much happiness
in your love!”

“That is right! You WILL live! I know it—I feel it!”

“But, my darling, you must go now. Every minute you remain here is
fraught with danger to your honor and your liberty. Go, dear Britomarte,
go!”

“No, I will not leave you! I will stay here and watch you. And now I
think of it, you must keep your limb perfectly still. The least motion
may set it to bleeding again.”

“I will, my dearest, I will. But go now—do go!”

“I said that I would not leave you, and I meant it!”

“But every moment of your stay is replete with peril to you! Squads of
rebel soldiers pass every now and then to plunder the dying and the
dead. And the fog is blowing away, and it is getting clearer and lighter
every minute, and if they come this way and discover you, they will
capture you immediately.”

“So they will you, Justin, if they discover your rank. And I am resolved
to stay and share your fate,” she firmly replied.

“Oh, Britomarte! Britomarte! think of the horrors of the Libby Prison!
How could you—a woman—bear them! Reflect and fly, Britomarte! Fly, and
save yourself in time!” he urged.

“If I were able to take you up on my shoulders and bear you off from the
battle-field, as Aeneas bore his father from burning Troy, I would do
so. But as I am not able so to save you, I will stay and share your
fate. ‘Horrors of the Libby Prison?’—Oh, Justin! there is nothing in
this world so hard to bear as separation from those we love. Nothing,
Justin, nothing! I know it, I feel it. I said so, Justin, when you left
me to go into the army; and so I disguised myself and followed you to
the field. And I say so now, kneeling by your side in this vale of
blood. I am now your promised wife, and nothing on earth shall ever part
me from your side unless I should be torn by violence away. If you go to
Libby, I go to Libby; happier if I share your fate in that foul prison
and pest-house than I could be anywhere else on earth.”

“But, Britomarte, for your own sake—for my sake!”

“Justin, my beloved, I abjured my womanhood, disguised myself and
followed you to battle; I have been by your side on twenty well fought
fields; I have dared what woman never dared before, that I might be ever
with you! Justin, Justin, my true love! my husband for time and
eternity! never again ask me to leave you!” she exclaimed, her voice and
all her frame trembling with emotion.

“I will not! Before heaven, I promise it! I will never ask you, I will
never _consent_ to your leaving me!” fervently, earnestly, solemnly
replied Justin, closing his hand upon her.

“That is well! Now let us talk calmly together, while we wait for what
may happen. And now tell me, Justin, how it was that you recognized me,
as you did, from the beginning? I thought I was well disguised, and I am
a good actress; with almost a Protean power of changing my face, and
with a ventriloquist’s gift of changing my voice!” she said.

“Yes, you were well disguised! wonderfully well! You had sacrificed your
luxuriant and beautiful, dark brown tresses, and had put on a skull-cap
wig of short, stiff, bristling flaxen hair, and drawn it tight and low
over your forehead, making the latter much narrower than nature had
formed it. You had shaved off your arched black eyebrows, giving your
face the bald look corresponding to the short, stiff hair, and quite
altering the expression of your eyes. You had widened your mouth by two
deep hidden lines in the corner. Altogether you had made, as you women
say, ‘a figure of yourself,’ which was not Britomarte. You had put
yourself in the uniform of a United States soldier. And you always
carried four or five pebbles in your mouth, to make you speak thickly
like a German,” said Justin.

“And yet you recognized me?”

“Yes; when I saw you in the ranks—flaxen hair, bald face, wide
mouth, soldier’s clothes and Dutchman’s voice to the contrary
notwithstanding—in the ugly, awkward little raw recruit, to my
unbounded amazement I recognized my beautiful Britomarte Conyers,”
he answered, smiling.

Many times in her military career had Britomarte’s cheeks crimsoned for
her own wounded womanhood; but never so deeply as now.

“Oh, Justin, Justin!” she said, covering her face with her hands, and
forgetting that he could not plainly see it in that obscure light—“Oh,
Justin, it was for your sake, my dearest, that I transformed and
disfigured myself so.”

“I know it, dear Britomarte, I know it.”

“Division from your side was worse than death to me—worse than division
of soul from body. I felt that I _must_ be with you, at all costs, but I
thought that you would never find me out. I wished to serve you as a
faithful little brother, with my identity unsuspected. Oh, Justin,
Justin! you never misunderstood or wronged me in your thoughts after you
recognized me, I know!” she passionately exclaimed.

“I never did.”

“Had I known that you had discovered me, I would have vanished from your
sight!”

“I know it, dear Britomarte, I know it! for I know you. There is not,
Britomarte, in the universe a creature who understands and appreciates
you and your motives so truly and justly as I can and as I do.”

“I feel sure of that,” murmured Britomarte.

Justin pressed her hand and relapsed into silence. He was really very
faint and weak from excessive loss of blood; and the transient strength
lent him by excitement was beginning to fail.

Britomarte took from her pocket some pieces of hard biscuit, soaked them
in the brandy from her flask and put them bit by bit into his mouth.

When he was sufficiently revived by these refreshments, she inquired:

“Dear Justin, when you recognized me in the ranks, how was it that you
did not whisper private information of the fact and get me quietly
mustered out?”

“My first impulse was to do just that very thing. But I seldom permit
myself to act upon impulse; and so I reflected that I had no right to
betray your secret, or to interfere with your plans, or in any way
invade your free agency; and I resolved to let you take your own course
and to protect you in it as far as in me lay.”

“Oh, Justin, dear Justin! good and true in all things, how much I——” her
voice broke down and she wept.

“And now, love, forgive me in what I am about to explain to you—because,
if I live, I am to be your husband, am I not?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” she answered, earnestly.

“And if I die, still we are to be one forever?”

“Forever and ever!”

“Why, then, we are bound together as fast as though all the courts in
the country had issued our marriage license, and all the churches in
Christendom had consecrated our union.”

“We are, my own dear love.”

“Then you will let me speak as plainly to you as to my wife.”

“Just as plainly. Yes.”

“Well, then, the very day on which you were mustered in, when I
recognized you, I asked myself with a shudder, Where will she eat? Where
will she sleep? With whom will she associate? How will she maintain her
sacred womanly reserve in this crowded camp, where four or five soldiers
occupy a tent together? And then it was that I felt the strong impulse
to give private information of your sex, and have you quietly mustered
out; but as I said before, I reflected that I had no right to betray
your secret, or restrain your free agency, and I resolved to let you go
on your own way, but to protect you in it, and so I immediately selected
you as my orderly, and assigned you a nook in my own quarters, where
your woman’s holy privacy would be, and ever has been, inviolate.”

“Oh, Justin, dear love, honored husband, a thousand blessings on you for
all your tender care,” she said, stooping and pressing her lips to his.

He put his arms around her, and she wept to feel how feeble those strong
arms had become, and he fondly returned her caresses.

“Tell me, now, Justin,” she said, “how it happened that you never once
betrayed to me your recognition of me?”

“I have great powers of reticence and self-control. I knew that to
betray my knowledge of you would be to wound your delicacy and control
your actions, and so I constantly guarded—”

“Hark!” exclaimed Britomarte, springing to her feet.

“What is it?” cried Justin.

“The Rebels are upon us.—Justin!”

“Well, dear?”

“If they capture us, do not betray my sex to them, in any hope that they
will respect it. Do not, Justin. Do not!”

“Not for a thousand worlds. Your uniform is the best protection your
womanhood could have now,” said the wounded man.




                              CHAPTER XLI.
                             THE SURPRISE.

            The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel,
              The Rebels round her coming!
            The sound and sight hath made her calm.
              Sham soldier, genuine woman!
            She stands amid them all unmoved!
            The heart supported by the loved
              Is strong to meet the foeman.—E. B. BROWNING.


“These, at least, shall not be dishonored by anything done to me,” said
Britomarte, as with her dagger she hastily cut and tore the captain’s
straps from her shoulders, and threw them as far as she could send them.

The sky was clearing, and it was much lighter than it had been as the
marauding party rode up. They dismounted at a short distance, and came
prowling about on foot among the fallen, to slay the dying, rob the
dead.

Britomarte knelt by Justin and held his hand as they came up, and bent
over the group.

“Hullo! who have we here? A Yankee colonel, by all that’s lucky. And a
Yankee spy to boot. Stoop down and examine him, Canstop. If he is badly
hurt, we’ll put him out of his misery, and appropriate that fine suit of
broadcloth that can be no farther use to him. If he is not, we’ll take
him prisoner and give him a taste of Libby,” said one who seemed to be
the leader of the squad.

“Where are you hurt?” said the man called Canstop, who seemed, from his
manner, to be some lower grade of hospital nurse.

“In my leg, only, I think. I am weak from loss of blood, and stiff from
certain bruises received, by my horse falling on me,” answered Justin,
calmly.

“All right; hand over your arms,” said the leader.

“You will find my sword somewhere on the field, where I dropped it from
my hand as I fell.”

“Your revolver?”

“Here it is,” said Justin, drawing it forth and delivering it up.

“Your watch?”

“I never before heard that watches were arms,” said Justin, as he passed
over his costly chronometer.

“Now your pocket book.”

Justin smiled as he answered:

“If it were not that I know you are backed up by a thousand precedents
of your comrades, I should wonder that you, calling yourselves soldiers,
should stoop to rob a wounded prisoner.”

“Hold your noise, you blamed Yankee, and do as you’re bid, or it will be
the worse for you.”

“I have no pocket book with me,” answered Justin, calmly; “I left it at
head quarters.”

“Oh! expected to be whipped, did you, and so made sure of the money by
leaving it behind. Just like your Yankee cunning.—Come, raise him up,
some of you boys, and see if he can stand upon his legs,” said the
leader, speaking to his men.

Two of them lifted Justin up, but it was evident that he could not
stand.

“I see,” said the leader. “Lay him down again. Canstop, haven’t you got
a stretcher somewhere handy?”

“Yes, under the ash tree about a hundred yards from this.”

“Go, some of you, and fetch it.”

Two men started at a run, and quickly returned with the stretcher.

And the wounded prisoner was lifted and laid upon it.

They had now time to attend to the less important captive.

“_You_ are not wounded, at least. What the devil do you mean by coming
within our lines?” fiercely demanded the leader.

“I came to succor my colonel, and to share his fate,” answered
Britomarte, firmly.

“Brave boy! what is your rank among the clock peddlers?” laughed the
leader.

“I am a soldier in the United States army,” proudly replied Britomarte.

“Of what grade?”

“I decline to answer.”

“You see ‘soldier’ is rather a comprehensive term. General Grant is a
soldier—”

“Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?” said Britomarte, derisively.

—“And every private in his army is a soldier—”

—“Thanks. You are giving us great praise,” laughed Britomarte.

—“I mean, of course, as to name. _You_ are a soldier, and I ask you of
what grade?”

“And I decline to answer your question.”

“All right; it is your own affair. Only if you call yourself simply a
soldier, you will be treated _as_ a soldier; that is to say, you will be
put in the lowest part of the prison, and fed upon the poorest rations.
The officers have better accommodations.”

Britomarte trembled, not at the certainty of foul food and fouler
lodging, but at the prospect of being separated from Justin. So she
answered—

“As I do not wish to be divided from my colonel, I will acknowledge that
I am a commissioned officer of the line, as you may see for yourself in
my dark blue uniform.”

“What is your name, and precise rank?”

“I decline to answer.”

“The fact is, you are a spy, but your reserve will not save you! Here,
Pettigru! take his arms, guard him, and march him after the other
prisoner!” said the leader.

Britomarte gave up her sword, dagger and revolver, and marched between
two rebel soldiers, after the stretcher upon which four other soldiers
were bearing Justin off from the field.

The leader was about to leave the spot with the remainder of the party,
when he heard a weak voice calling—

“Sergeant!”

“Well, who are you? what’s the matter?”

“One of your company—wounded in the hip. Don’t you think you could send
a stretcher and have me taken off the field?”

“I’ll see. We are picking up all we can without getting too near the
Yankee lines. Those devils never sleep! and we are expecting the battle
to be renewed in the morning. However, I’ll attend to your case.”

“Sergeant!”

“Well, what now.”

“You have taken two prisoners?”

“Yes; what then?”

“One was a Yankee Colonel?”

“Colonel Rosenthal—yes, what of it?”

“Why the other one, Sergeant, was—was his sweetheart.”

“Eh?”

“His sweetheart, Sergeant.”

“How do you know that?”

“Laying here in the bushes quite near them, but out of their sight, I
overheard their talk—not all of it, nor half of it, for they spoke in a
low tone—but I overheard enough to know that she is his sweetheart, and
has served with him, disguised as a soldier, for the last year or so,
and that she _is_ a commissioned officer.”

“Ah-h-h, ha-a-a!” chuckled the Sergeant; “that’s the reason why she was
so close! but her closeness shall not save her any more than her sex
shall! We’ll treat her as a spy! her name, my man! did you hear her
name?”

“Not the one she went by in the army; but I think _he_ called her
Bridget Martin, or some such name.

“Ah-h-h, ha-a-a! Miss Bridget Martin! I think we shall let in a little
light upon you before long! I shouldn’t wonder if you were the very
‘orderly’ of Colonel Rosenthal who penetrated the camp of the Free Sword
and betrayed him. We shall see! Keep up your courage, my man; I will
send the stretcher back for you as soon as it has deposited the
colonel.”

And so saying, the sergeant, instead of going to other parts of the
field, as he had intended, turned and followed the prisoners.

The bearers supporting the stretcher upon which Colonel Rosenthal lay,
moved rapidly onward over the rough ground to the great distress of the
wounded man.

Britomarte was driven closely behind him—literally _driven_; for if,
after her day and night of severe and exhausting battle and toil, her
woman’s fragile limbs gave way for a moment, her steps were promptly
quickened by the point of the bayonet thrust against her shoulders.

So over miles and miles of broken and rocky roads they were painfully
marched to the rear of Lee’s army, and to an old barn that was used as a
temporary depot for prisoners.

Here, to her consternation, Britomarte was thrust in with a number of
fellow captives, who were waiting to be transported to Richmond, while
Colonel Rosenthal was borne off to the field hospital to have his wound
looked to.

There must have been more than a thousand prisoners crowded into that
old barn.

Britomarte, being one of the last taken, found herself near the door.
And when it was closed and barred upon her, she could get no farther.
She was like a late arrival at an overcrowded lecture-room—only this
crowd was all standing, because there was no room to sit or lie down.
The building was broken here and there, and through crevices a little
air got in; this only prevented the prisoners from being suffocated.
They were a patient and silent band of victims—only here and there was
heard a groan wrung from some sufferer from disease or wounds; and now
and then a curse struck out from some exasperated soldier who found
himself squeezed nearly to death by the crowd.

Britomarte, being small and slight, sank down upon the floor, with her
back resting against the closed door. And notwithstanding her great
mental anxiety—worn out in body and mind, and overcome with heat and
fatigue—she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, that lasted perhaps
two hours.

She was rudely awakened by falling backwards. The door against which she
had leaned had been suddenly opened, and she had gone over.

Half bewildered by the deep sleep and the rude shock that had ended it,
she picked herself up in time to hear the prison guard shout:

“Come, get out of this, you lazy Yankees! You’ve got to go to
Richmond—where you’ve been trying to get for the last three or four
years, you know.”

The half suffocated prisoners were only glad to get out into the open
air. And though ready to sink with heat, fasting and weariness, they
issued forth.

Many of them dropped down upon the ground to rest and stretch their
stiff and wearied limbs, and wait for the breakfast which they hoped was
coming.

But there was no such good luck in store for them. They were ordered to
rise and fall in line; and when, by reason of their stiffness and
soreness, they were slow to move, they were poked and goaded up at the
point of the bayonet.

Some of the younger men—mere boys, who in their comfortable Northern or
Western homes, had been used to warm and plentiful meals, and even
during their campaigns with the army had been provided with regular and
excellent rations—could not get used to living without food and drink.
So they complained of hunger and asked for breakfast.

“‘Breakfast!’” was the laughing and probably the truthful
rejoinder—“‘breakfast,’ is it? Why we haven’t any for ourselves, how can
we give it to you? But cheer up, Yanks! we shall get something to eat on
the road, I dare say, if it’s nothing better than raw potatoes or unripe
corn.”

The prisoners were immediately formed in line, guarded on either side by
a strong detachment of rebel infantry, and put _en route_ for Richmond
by one of the plank roads still covered by Lee’s army.

Britomarte, consumed by anxiety for the fate of Justin, ventured to ask
an officer of the guard who was marching near her, whether he was still
in the field hospital, and what was his state. She spoke in a gentle and
winning tone of voice, and the officer addressed happened to be a
gentleman.

“‘Colonel Rosenthal?’” he replied. “He is in the ambulance ahead of us,
with several other Yankee officers who are slightly wounded, but unable
to walk.”

“Is his wound a slight one?”

“I presume it is not a dangerous one, or he would have been left upon
the field. We can have no object in capturing an officer who is likely
to die before he can be exchanged.”

And here the officer, feeling perhaps that his courtesy had gone far
enough in talking to a prisoner, fell back a little out of earshot.

Britomarte felt comforted in the knowledge that Justin’s wound was not
dangerous, and that he was on the same road with herself, and would
probably be assigned to the same ward of the same prison with herself.

When they had marched about three miles through a wasted and desolated
country, they came to a cornfield, where a halt was ordered, and the
prisoners were directed to help themselves, and permitted to rest. The
corn was not near ripe, the ears when the husks were removed being
little bigger than a man’s fore-finger, and the husks still soft; and
the ground was wet with the recent heavy rains. Notwithstanding these
drawbacks, the famished and fatigued prisoners gladly filled their
stomachs with this very green corn, devouring both grain and husks; and
afterwards threw their wearied limbs down upon the damp
ground—imprudences to be fearfully paid for in the disease and death
that afterwards decimated the crowded population of Libby and Belle
Isle.

Having eaten and rested in this fatal manner, the order was given to
rise and fall in line, and the march was resumed.

All that burning day, when “the sky was brass,” they marched. Late in
the afternoon they halted again in an orchard, and supped off green
apples, and immediately resumed the march.

It was near nightfall when they reached Richmond.

There was a short halt, during which their arrival was formally reported
to the proper authorities, and orders for their disposition taken.

And then they were marched directly to the Libby and packed into a
prison that was already crowded.

For what follows I am indebted partly to personal observation, and
partly to the report of an officer who was an inmate of that pest-house
for several months.

The Libby, as I saw it in May, 1865, is a great, strong, oblong building
of the simplest structure. It stands quite alone, a whole block in
itself, reaching each way from street to street. It fronts the water and
the wharfs, and backs upon a city street—though front and back are so
exactly alike that it is difficult to say which is which. It has no wall
or yard around it. It stands barely and grimly out between the streets.
It is of two stories, or, counting the ground floor, of three. Each
story is divided, simply and equally, into three great halls, each big
enough for an ordinary church, and running from front to back through
the whole building. Each hall has its sides formed of solid masonry, and
its ends of three immense doors, formed only of perpendicular iron bars,
and reaching from the ceiling to the floor. Through these bars at the
front may be seen the sidewalk, the river, the wharves, and the busy
scenes of traffic; through the bars of the back a crowded city street.
Through these opposite, open bars the ventilation is very good. There is
neither bed, bench, water-jug or furniture of any sort in either hall.
But in the right hand corner of the front there is, in each, a water
spout and sink.

So, amid all the miserable squalor and destitution of the Libby, there
seemed to be three or four necessaries of life in plenty—light, air,
water and an open view of earth and sky.

At least these were my impressions in inspecting it in May, 1865, nearly
a year after the events I am now relating.

It was quite dark when our prisoners were halted before the Libby; but
the gas lamps of the street showed the iron barred front of the
building, lined with ghastly faces looking out upon the night. Our men
were suffering extremely, all from fatigue, and many from acute illness
brought on by eating green corn and green apples, and marching under the
burning sun. And many sat down and many dropped upon the sidewalk before
the prison, while waiting for the doors to be thrown open. A report went
round among them that they were only to be packed up in the Libby for
that night; and that next morning they were to be divided between Belle
Isle and Castle Thunder.

At last the massive doors were thrown open and the prisoners were forced
in—really forced, for though _they_ made no sort of resistance, the
crowd already there was so great that it formed an almost impassable
obstacle to the entrance of any more. But our boys were pushed in and
pressed upon this crowd, until it fell heavily back upon itself, to the
risk of great injury and even death to individual prisoners. And when
nearly all were in, and the crowd still bulged through the open doors,
as the contents of an over-full trunk bulges through its open top, these
doors were closed by main force upon it, just as you would close down
the lid of the trunk.

This was not a silent and a patient crowd like that in the barn had
been. The greater number of these men had suffered too long and too
terribly. Their state had been bad enough before this new instalment of
prisoners was thrust in upon them; now it was immeasurably worse. Here
were men pressed together by thousands in a stone hall that could not
have accommodated a hundred in comfort—pressed together so closely that
there was no room to sit or lie down.

To be sure they had air from the open gratings at each end of the hall;
but the walls on each side were reeking with moisture and sickening with
mould, and the ground floor under their feet was paved only with round
stones like those in the middle of the streets, and was in many places
worn with deep holes, where water had gathered, in which the men stood
ankle deep.

Many of these men were suffering from wounds, not serious in the
beginning, else they had not been brought here, but inflamed and fevered
by neglect and ill treatment; many were racked with neuralgia and
rheumatism from constant exposure to damp and cold; many were ill from
revolting forms of disease brought on by foul food. And added to all
this, all were suffering from hunger, thirst and weariness. And there
was no relief and no prospect of relief.

Here, over these prison doors, might have been inscribed the awful motto
over the gates of Hell:

                  WHO ENTERS HERE LEAVES HOPE BEHIND.

Here were agonizing groans and heart-rending prayers; heavy complainings
and bitter upbraidings; deeply breathed maledictions and fiercely
muttered vows of vengeance.

The rays of a gas lamp at the corner of the street, streaming through
the grating, lighted up the ghastly faces of these prisoners with a wild
and lurid glare. They looked like the inhabitants of Tartarus. The place
seemed at once a purgatory and a pandemonium.

Britomarte—for the first time in all her military career—shuddered with
horror.

“Keep near the grating, my dearest, with your face to the bars, so that
you may get as much fresh air as possible,” whispered a faint voice
close to her ear.

She turned quickly and saw the face of her lover, pallid in the
lamp-light.

“Justin! You here! You in this hall of horrors! Oh, I am so sorry!” she
exclaimed, in a low and anxious tone.

“And I am so glad! And I thought you would be glad to have me near you,”
he cheerfully replied.

“Not here—not in this torture chamber. Oh, Justin! weak and wounded, how
will you bear it?”

“Much better than I could bear separation from you, Britomarte,” he
earnestly answered.

“Your wound, Justin, how is it? painful?”

“Not more so than I can well endure,” he answered, smiling.

But to her wistful gaze, his white lips and wrung brow almost belied his
words.

“They might have sent you to a hospital, at least. It was inhuman to
place you here,” she said.

“But, my dearest, they placed me just where I wished to be,” he
cheerfully said.

And this was true, so true, that he had feigned a greater strength and a
quicker convalescence than he really enjoyed, in order to be sent to the
Libby.

“But how was it that I didn’t see you outside?” she inquired.

“Because it was late when I was brought up. I was one of the last to be
packed in,” he laughed.

“‘Packed in.’ Yes, that is what it is. We are lucky to be near the
grating; but how will the poor creatures in the middle of the crowd
stand it?”

“They will not be required to do so long. This is only a temporary
arrangement. I am given to understand that to-morrow morning we, the
newly arrived, will be sent to Belle Isle. This will relieve the
others.”

While Justin and Britomarte talked together in this low tone, Babel, or
rather Bedlam, was all around them. The groans rose to howls, complaints
to threats, and prayers to shrieks.

One voice from the midst of the crowd arose above all the rest:

“Water, boys—for the Lord’s sake, water! Here’s a man fainting. The
spout is in the left hand corner near the front grating. Draw the water
and pass it on here, will you?”

There was a muffled shuffling among the men nearest the water spout, and
then another voice replied:

“The cup is chained to the spout. We can’t pass it.”

Groans and curses answered this.

“Here, Justin—here is the flask of brandy, with the cup fitted to it,
that I brought for you on the field. Offer it to them, Justin,” said
Britomarte, passing the flask that the Rebels had not taken from her.

From Justin it was passed on from hand to hand, until it reached the men
nearest the water spout. They took the cup from the bottom of the flask,
over which it was fitted, and they filled it with water, and then passed
both cup and flask from hand to hand until it reached the fainting
invalid.

It seemed to be useless, for the voice that had spoken first was heard
again:

“Crowd back, boys. Crowd back, for Heaven’s sake! Never mind flattening
yourselves half to death! Crowd back, I say! This man is not fainting—he
is dying! Let him have a little room to lie down and die.”

There was an attempt at “crowding back.” The attempt involved increased
pressure and pain, and elicited renewed groans and curses. But four or
five feet of room was made, and the dying man was let down upon the
ground. The “man” was a boy of eighteen. Those immediately around him
saw his face darken with the shadow of death, saw his eyes glaze, and
heard his gasping breath, and the death rattle in his throat, and they
saw, through all, his eager anxiety and painful effort to speak.

“Don’t tell——don’t tell——don’t tell——” he began to say many times, and
many times he failed.

At length, in one supreme effort, he spoke his whole will.

“Don’t tell mother—never let her hear—how wretchedly I die!”

And with these words, his spirit passed.

And the groans and curses and vows of vengeance were renewed—more is the
pity, since the pure spirit that had just departed was doubtlessly
reconciled to all things, and at peace with all men.

It was a night of horror and agony, unutterable and indescribable. To
those who endured it, the eight hours of darkness seemed eight years of
torture. But it passed at last.

The pale, sickly dawn of day appeared. The gas in the streets was turned
off.

A little while after sunrise the prison doors were opened, and the
prisoners nearest the outlet burst forth, as the contents of an over
packed chest when the lid is raised.

Half of them were taken out, and marched, between a detachment of Rebel
infantry, through the streets of the city _en route_ for Belle Isle.

In one of the most crowded thoroughfares, they were halted before a
grim-looking building with grated windows.

“What place is that?” inquired Britomarte of the Rebel soldier beside
her.

“It is Castle Thunder,” was the gruff reply.

The officer commanding the guard came near.

“Bring that prisoner out of the lines!” he ordered, pointing to
Britomarte.

And two soldiers seized her by the two arms.

“Me!” she exclaimed in surprise, making an involuntary but perfectly
vain effort of resistance.

“Yes, you, _Miss Bridget Martin_!” said the officer.

“What are you about to do with me?” she demanded, recovering her
self-possession, and ceasing to resist where resistance would be
unavailing and undignified.

“We are going to put you in Castle Thunder; you are not to be treated as
a prisoner of war, but to be tried as a spy.”

“I!” she exclaimed, in amazement.

“Yes, _you_, Miss Bridget Martin!” replied the officer in a mocking
tone.

Britomarte looked around in despair for Justin. She knew, of course,
that he could not help her. She only wished to take leave of him, before
going into a captivity that was likely to end in death. But Justin was
nowhere to be seen. He was, in fact, several hundred yards in advance of
her in the line of march.

So Britomarte was taken into Castle Thunder, and delivered into the
custody of the officer in command of that prison. First she was led into
an office where her supposed name—Bridget Martin—was recorded in the
prison books, and where a receipt was taken from the warden for her
person. Then she was conducted to a cell opening on a corridor on the
second floor, and having a broad grated window looking out upon the
street. This cell was about seven by five in size, and was provided with
a narrow mattress laid upon the floor, and covered with a gray blanket.
There was no other furniture whatever.

Yet still, how much better her situation was here than it had been in
the Libby!

As soon as the door was closed, and the key was turned, and she found
herself alone, she sank down upon the mattress, for she was more than
half dead with fatigue, and rested with a sense of infinite relief.

When at last she could collect her thoughts, she wondered how it was
that the rebels had discovered her sex, and what had put it into their
heads that her name was Bridget Martin. At last her perspicacity
penetrated the truth of the matter—some wounded rebel on the field near
them had overheard the conversation between Justin and herself, and had
mistaken her unfamiliar name of Britomarte for the common one of Bridget
Martin. Farther it appeared that they did not know the name under which
she had served in the Union army; so, with a smile, Britomarte resolved
to leave them in ignorance of her identity, and under their mistake in
regard to her name.

She had scarcely formed this resolution when her cell-door was opened
and one of the prison guard brought in her breakfast. It was only a
small tin cup of Indian corn meal gruel; and it was unsalted; but
Britomarte was more than half-famished, and she ate this simple food
with a good relish. She asked the guard if there were many prisoners in
the building. He answered:

“Yes, Miss; four or five in every cell; but you are put here alone,
because you are a woman.”

So, then, even her guard knew her sex! But, of course! the name
inscribed upon the prison books was Bridget Martin.

She then asked the guard if she might be permitted to see the officer in
command of the prison.

He answered that he would find out as soon as she should be relieved.

When he took the empty cup away, and Britomarte found herself again
alone, she took off her military coat, ripped open its padding and took
out a number of greenbacks; and then she put on her coat again.

Late in the forenoon the commander of the prison, or some other officer
evidently in authority, came into the cell.

Britomarte arose from her sitting posture on the mattress, and stood up
to receive her visitor.

There was neither chair nor stool, so she could not ask him to sit down.

“What is it you wish to say to me?” he inquired.

A vivid blush overspread the face of Britomarte as she answered:

“I wish to know whether I may be permitted to purchase garments suitable
to my sex?”

“It is a pity you ever abandoned them,” said the officer.

“I do not think so; I have done good service to my country while wearing
this uniform. But you have not answered the question.”

“I have no authority to answer it. But I will make inquiries.”

“Thank you,” said Britomarte.

And the visitor, who had appeared at her summons, like a ghost evoked
from the shades, now disappeared in the same manner.

Two or three days passed before the privilege she sued for was granted
to her. But at length she was permitted, through the agency of the
prison officials, to purchase clothing and re-assume the dress of her
sex. Also a chair was provided her, and coarse but clean sheets, for all
of which she paid heavily in Federal notes; but thus she enjoyed a
comparative degree of comfort.




                             CHAPTER XLII.
                      “THE BEGINNING OF THE END.”

          The conflict raged! The din of arms—the yell
          Of savage hate—the shriek of agony—
          The groan of death, commingled in one sound
          Of undistinguished horrors; while the sun,
          Retiring slow beneath the plain’s far verge,
          Shed o’er the quiet hills his fading light.—SOUTHEY.


For many months Britomarte remained a prisoner in Castle Thunder. She
was not brought to trial as a spy.

She was brought up once or twice for an informal examination before the
provost marshal or some other officer in authority. But when questioned
she remained absolutely silent; so that no information could be obtained
from her.

And the only witness that could be found to give testimony in her case,
was the wounded rebel soldier who had overheard the conversation between
herself and her lover, and who swore that her name as heard by himself
was Bridget Martin.

So as Bridget Martin she was remanded to prison, where she seemed likely
to remain until the end of the war.

That end was not very far off. General Grant was slowly but surely
fighting his way to Richmond, winding around it coil after coil of that
“anaconda grasp ever tightening,” that was destined to destroy the
doomed Confederate capital.

In due time Colonel Rosenthal was exchanged and released; but so broken
in health from the pains and privations of his captivity, that when he
reported himself for duty at his brigade headquarters, he was
immediately sent home on sick leave.

And there it required many weeks of Erminie’s careful and skillful
nursing before his strength could be restored.

During all this time Justin had been unremitting in his efforts to hear
tidings of Britomarte, and to take measures for her release. But none of
these efforts were successful.

It will be remembered that when Britomarte was taken from the prisoners’
line of march to be cast into Castle Thunder, Justin was some two
squares ahead, and knew nothing of her withdrawal.

When the party of prisoners reached Belle Isle, he looked around for
Britomarte, and not seeing her, cautiously inquired among the men who,
some of them, knew her by sight, but only as “Captain Wing,” a
commissioned officer of his regiment.

The men could give no information, until at length the two or three who
had marched nearest to her said that “Captain Wing” had been taken from
the line, when they were halted in one of the streets of the city; but
they could not tell where “he” had been carried.

He inquired of the guard, who remained dumb.

Then he questioned the officer of the guard, who gave him no
satisfaction, but, on the contrary, turned cross-questioner himself, in
order to find out who Britomarte was.

Justin saw his drift and became silent.

So his investigations ended for that time, to be renewed again and
again, both at Richmond and at Washington, with no better success.

She was a prisoner in a solitary cell in Castle Thunder, where she was
known only by the name which the mistaken rebel soldier had bestowed
upon her; so it was not probable, or scarcely possible, that her friends
should hear of her condition.

Early in January, Justin, still in very feeble health, but impatient to
serve his country, rejoined his regiment. He returned to the front, in
company with many officers who had been home on furlough to spend the
Christmas holidays.

He found that already the spring campaign, destined to be the last and
greatest of the war, was about to open.

Along the whole lines, active preparations were being made for a new
combined assault upon Petersburg and Richmond.

General Grant was at City Point, with the whole plan of the campaign in
his comprehensive brain, and directing the operations of the whole army
with consummate skill. There had been many changes in the army since
Colonel Rosenthal had fought with them in the battles of Cold Harbor.
Officers by thousands and enlisted men by tens of thousands, had been
killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, in the scores of battles that had
been fought between the Pamunkey, the Chickahominy, and the James
rivers, and around Petersburg. And their places had been filled up with
raw recruits. Veteran privates had developed into commissioned officers,
and officers of the line had grown into regimental, brigade, and even
division commanders. But it was only “gallant and meritorious conduct”
in the service that was thus distinguished.

For instance, little Mim, who, at the battle of the Chickahominy, in
June, was only a private soldier in an infantry regiment, was now major
and aid-de-camp on the staff of a division general, while Billingcoo,
who was mustered in at the same time with Mim, remained still a very
sorry soldier of the rank and file.

But then Mim was a little hero, ever foremost in the fight, by his
high-hearted bravery and devotion ever inspiring and encouraging all
around him, while Billingcoo, in every engagement, was flagrantly among
the skulkers, and ran away and hid himself whenever he could get an
opportunity to do so.

And singularly enough, Mim, who constantly exposed himself in the front
of battle, seemed, even under a storm of shot and shell, to bear a
charmed life; while Billingcoo, who gave his whole mind to the duty of
taking care of his body, was always getting hurt. And once, while hiding
behind a barn, one day, to keep out of the range of shot, he had his ear
torn off by a splinter from a shell that came splitting its way through
the timbers of the building.

When Colonel Rosenthal met Mim, he congratulated that gallant officer on
his well-earned advancement.

“Thanks,” said the little hero, drawing himself up. “I always told the
recruiting officers, when I offered myself, that I could do good
military service for my country, but they never agreed with me, and in
the face of the fact that almost every great martial hero the world has
known, from Alexander to Napoleon, was a little man, they repeatedly
refused me. Yes, they refused me until things came to such a pass that
for want of men they were compelled, like the feast giver in the Bible,
to call in ‘the maimed, the halt and the blind.’ The Invalid Corps, you
know, Colonel. Then at length they consented to take _me_.”

“And you have done good service to your country, and great credit to
yourself, Major Mim,” answered Justin.

With Billingcoo Justin did not happen to come in contact at all.

And now, about the last of January, the most energetic arrangements were
made to close in around Petersburg and Richmond. The whole army was in
the most active preparation.

The first object was to seize the South Side Railroad.

To absorb the attention of the enemy, a heavy cannonading was opened
upon Petersburg, hurling an overwhelming tempest of shot and shell into
the city.

Under cover of this terrific assault in the front, the sick, the
wounded, the sutlers, the camp followers, with all their baggage, and
all other animate and inanimate incumbrances to the movements of the
army, were dispatched by railroad to City Point, and all serviceable
troops and supplies were brought up and massed on the left.

As early as three o’clock on Sunday, the fifth of February, under cover
of the darkness, Gregg’s division of cavalry commenced its march,
followed immediately by the Fifth and Second Corps. The weather was
glorious, the roads in the best condition, and the men in the best
spirits.

It was rather a strange coincidence that Colonel Rosenthal’s last
engagement, in which he was wounded and taken prisoner, had been in a
charge upon Wade Hampton’s cavalry, and that his first encounter on
rejoining his regiment should be with the same brave foe. But such were
the facts, for—

They had advanced but a little way beyond Ream’s Station, on the
Dinwiddie Court House Road, when they were met by Wade Hampton’s
cavalry, with whom they had a fierce contest for the right of way,
before they could pass. But again they were victorious, and rushed
onward like a whirlwind towards Dinwiddie Court House, encountering and
overwhelming the enemy at every post along the road.

The other divisions advanced by adjacent roads running in the same
general direction, battling every mile of the way.

But the great battle was fought on Monday, the sixth of February, at
Hatcher’s Run, a deep stream passing through a nearly pathless
wilderness, broken into fearful ravines, stagnant marshes, and heavy
woods—a locality new to our soldiers, but perfectly familiar to the
enemy.

Here, at length, the farther advance of our army was for the time
effectually checked.

A battle was commenced early in the day, and gradually increased in
violence, until at nightfall it raged with tremendous fury. Gregg’s
division of cavalry, and Warren’s and Humphrey’s corps, were all
engaged. Again and again they pressed forward under a pelting shower of
bullets, that fell thick, fast and blinding as a hailstorm, and again
and again they were driven back, fighting desperately behind rocks,
stumps and trees. So often they fought over the same ground, that the
woods and marshes were strewn thickly with the dead and dying of both
armies, in an undistinguishable confusion.

The circumstances were very discouraging to brave men, but very
favorable to skulkers; and unluckily there _were_ skulkers in that
heroic army, but they were mostly to be found among the raw
recruits—soft metal—that had not yet been hardened in the fires of an
hundred battles.

From time to time staff officers were sent out, like whippers-in of
hounds, to hunt up these heroes and hurry them to their line.

Major Mim, being an active, energetic little fellow, was dispatched on
just such a duty. In the course of his ride through the wilderness, he
came upon Billingcoo lurking in a thicket.

“Get up and go to your company, sir,” said Mim.

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t, indeed! Hear how the thots are cracking and
thnapping about! And look how the men are dropping! Oh, the poor
fellowth! oh, the poor, dear fellowth!” whimpered Billingcoo.

“For shame, sir! Get up, and go and help the ‘poor fellowths’ you
profess to feel so much sympathy for,” said Mim.

“I can’t! indeed I can’t! The bulleth hurt! they do indeed, Mathor! And
the Rebelth fire without the thlighteth regard to a man’s life! Oh, look
how they are falling! Oh, poor fellowth! oh, the poor, poor fellowth!”
howled Billingcoo.

“The _brave_ fellows, you mean; get up and imitate them.”

“Oh, I couldn’t! I couldn’t for my life! I thould be thertain to be
killed! The Rebelth fire tho carelethly, not minding who they hit! I
feel I thould he killed!

“Suppose you _are_ killed, you poltroon! what of it? A man can die but
once!” exclaimed little Mim, thoroughly provoked.

“I tell you I’ve died a thouthand death thinth I’ve been in the army!
I’ve died a hundred death thinth I’ve been in thith thicket!”

“And you’ll die a hundred thousand more if you do not get over your
cowardly fears! Look at that young fellow there!” said Mim, pointing to
a young officer at some distance who, with sword in hand, was gaily
cheering on his men to the conflict.

Billingcoo looked; but at that moment a shell came tearing and splitting
its way through the woods, and when the smoke cleared away, a horrible
picture was revealed between its rifts. The young officer stood in the
same attitude, with his sword drawn and held at arm’s length over his
head, but his whole face was blown off, and nothing but a gory, crimson,
quivering mass of flesh remained where it had been. For only an instant
he stood thus, and then fell.

Billingcoo uttered a cry of horror and deadly terror, and threw himself
forward upon the ground.

Even Mim shuddered, and covered his eyes for a moment; but then
recovering herself, he looked up and said:

“It is all over by this time; the brave young fellow is out of his
misery. Come, Billingcoo! I have been sent to hurry up all laggards. Get
up! Pick up your musket and march!”

“I tell you I can’t—there! and I won’t neither—there! Do you think I
want to have my fathe blown to pieth like that young man’th! I say I
can’t and I won’t go! I am religiouthly oppothed to war!” answered
Billingcoo, lifting his head for a moment, and then letting it fall.

“You say you can’t and you won’t! Well, I say you must and you shall!”
exclaimed Mim, goading the sides of the prostrate coward with the point
of his drawn sword.

“Oh! look here now! That hurth! Thtop that!” cried Billingcoo.

“Get up then, and go to your company!” said Mim, goading him more
pointedly than ever.

“Oh lor! oh dear! oh me! call this a free country indeed! Thtop that
now, will you! It _hurth_, I tell you!”

“Get up, then!” repeated Mim, digging at him again.

But at that moment a minie ball came whizzing towards them, piercing the
leg of Mim and killing his horse, which instantly fell under him; so
that both rider and horse rolled on the ground.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Billingcoo. “I don’t bear you any
ill-will, old fellow; but I do think it therveth you right, and I do
thank the goodneth grathiouth alive for thith great deliveranth!”

And he jumped up, cut three or four capers in the air, and ran farther
away out of gun-shot; for the battle was now surging nearer and nearer
to them.

Every one knows that on that night our army was beaten back to their
intrenchments upon Hatcher’s Run, where they made a final stand.

The next day, when the wounded were looked up, Mim was found with his
leg hurt beside his dead horse. And some distance farther on Billingcoo
was found dead—transfixed with a splinter driven into his body by a
shell that had torn its way through the old log cabin behind which the
poor creature, with his usual fatuity, had hidden himself in fancied
security.

Our army were now in undisputed possession of Hatcher’s Run. And the
City Point Railroad was in good working order up to this post.

But, as every one knows, it was three weeks later, and after almost
incessant fighting along the White Oak Road, culminating in the terrific
battle of the Five Forks, that the South Side Railroad was at length
seized and destroyed, the Confederate army totally routed, and the way
opened to the occupation of Richmond and Petersburg by our troops.

It would be presumptuous in a mere story-writer to dwell upon these
magnificent themes, so much beyond her power of treatment. This story
does not pretend to be a history of the campaign or of any portion of
it; it is only a simple narrative of the part taken therein by certain
persons in whom we are interested. And besides, it would be useless to
dilate upon events that are still fresh in the memory of all. All
recollect—how from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from the Lakes to
the Gulf—how all the land rang with joy, how all the cities glowed with
light, how all the banners waved in triumph—when the vibrating
telegraphic wires flashed East and West—flashed North and South—the
proud words:

“Richmond and Petersburg are ours! One third of Lee’s army is destroyed.
And for the rest there is no escape.”

And yet, even among the most loyal of the Union party, _mostly_ among
them perhaps, was this joy mingled with sadness, for they were no alien
foes that our arms had vanquished.




                             CHAPTER XLIII.
                          DELIVERANCE AT LAST.

     Who knew, she thought, what the amazement,
     The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,
     And if, in this morning of wonder,
     No outlet mid lightning and thunder,
     Lay broad, and her shackles all shivered,
     The captive, at last, was delivered?
     Aye, that was the open sky o’erhead!
     And you saw by the flash in her forehead,
     By the hope in those eyes, broad and steady,
     She was leagues o’er the free earth already.—ROBERT BROWNING.

           “I was sick, and in prison and ye visited me not!”


Ah! in all our great cities, how many human beings there are “sick and
in prison,” whose lot is much more miserable than that of the poorest
beggar who enjoys the free air! These are not always criminals, but they
are almost always friendless; for who dreams of visiting them?

“I was sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not!” These pathetic words
of Our Saviour recurred to my mind, with my recollection of one heroic
young woman, who, for no other crime than that of serving her country
according to her own conscience, was, for a great length of time,
confined in the solitary cell of a Confederate prison.

Britomarte, for many weary months, remained a captive in Castle Thunder.
The tediousness, the heaviness, the wretchedness of this captivity, who
can imagine?

She was more than a suspected spy in the hands of the enemy, and as
such, she was only saved from the usual fate of a spy by that
consideration for her sex which restrained her captors from putting a
woman to death for anything less than a capital crime proved upon
her—not by circumstantial evidence, but by direct testimony.

Yet was her captivity even more bitter and terrible than death. She was
debarred from books, newspapers, companionship, and from conversation,
even with her guards. She could get no intelligence of her friends or
her country.

Whether Colonel Rosenthal had recovered, or had died of his wounds, or
whether he had been exchanged, or was still a prisoner at Belle Isle,
she could not surmise.

Whether General Grant had crossed the James and invested Richmond, or
whether the Army of the Potomac had again been beaten back to
Washington, she did not know.

Occasionally, from the shouts that filled the city sheets by day, and
the lights that illumined the city windows by night, she conjectured
that a Confederate victory had been gained, or a false report of such a
victory spread.

These were her only sources of even conjecture.

In solitude, in silence, in idleness, in close confinement, intense
anxiety and maddening suspense, the heavy days and nights, the horrible
autumn and winter of her captivity crept slowly into the past. For
months her brave soul bore nobly up.

But as the spring opened, bringing life and light and beauty to all the
earth, but no ray of joy, or hope, or comfort, into her prison cell, her
body, soul and spirit all broke down.

These were the darkest hours of her long dreary night of misery, but
like such hours, they fell just before the dawn of her new, sweet day of
joy.

It was the ever memorable second of April, eighteen hundred and
sixty-five. Up to this day, the great Confederate capital had continued
confident in its own fancied security, and even now it was as utterly
unconscious of its fast approaching capture, as was the solitary
prisoner in Castle Thunder of her quickly coming deliverance.

It was Sunday, and the sweet Sabbath peace reigned over the city.

Britomarte sat at the grated window of her cell, as she had sat—how many
heavy days and sleepless nights! She was almost as fleshless as a
skeleton, as bloodless as a corpse, and as hopeless as a lost spirit.
She had been listening to the solemn Sabbath bells calling the citizens
to their afternoon worship; she had been watching these citizens, both
male and female, young and old, troop past, in their quaint, faded, and
old-fashioned apparel, that the severity of the blockade compelled them
still to wear, and she had been wondering wearily at the strange
self-delusion and inconsistency which permitted these people to collect
and pray like Christians in their churches, and to muster and make war
like heathen upon their brethren.

But now the bells had ceased to ring, the churches were filled, and the
streets were empty. Her head dropped upon her hand, and she sat in dull
despair, while the hours crept slowly by, and the sun sank slowly to his
setting.

Then the cry of her heart went up:

“‘How long, O Lord, how long?’”

Not long now, oh pale prisoner! “The day of the Lord is at hand, at
hand.” The sun has set for the last time upon the Rebel capital.
To-morrow it will rise upon a redeemed city.

Even now Lee’s army is in full retreat. And those Sabbath bells you late
heard ringing summoned, among others, one worshipper to church, who ere
he left his pew again, received a telegram announcing, in effect, that
his reign was over and his city about to be taken.

Even now the trains of cars at the station of the Richmond and Danville
Railroad are seized for the use of the Confederate President and his
retinue, who are about to fly from the falling capital. Breckenridge and
his army have received orders to evacuate Richmond by midnight; but he
has resolved to leave behind him a tremendous token of vengeance by
destroying the city that they could not hold. There is an
ever-increasing noise and confusion throughout the city, though as yet
the people are kept in ignorance and do not know what all the excitement
is about.

Britomarte, sitting at the grated window of her prison cell, and seeing
the crowds hurry through the streets, thought at first that they were
the congregations dismissed from the several churches.

But as the crowds became multitudes, and the confusion became uproar,
she began to think that news of some great battle had been received; but
whether the people were howling over a defeat or hurrahing over a
victory, she could _not_ discover.

While she was enduring this suspense, the door of her cell was unlocked,
and the guard, or turnkey, who attended her, brought in the cup of
unsalted corn meal gruel that formed her usual supper.

For months she had ceased to speak to her guards, because they had been
forbidden to hold any conversation with her. But now the unexplained
uproar of the whole city, the excited looks of this man, and her own
intense anxiety, irresistibly impelled her to question him.

“What is the matter outside?” she eagerly inquired.

He hesitated a moment, glanced at her anxious countenance, and then,
with a harsh laugh, he answered:

“Don’t you know? The Army of the Potomac is utterly destroyed. Grant and
all his generals are taken prisoners, and are on their way to the city.
And the mob mean to lynch them, if the president and the general don’t
prevent it.”

“My God!” exclaimed Britomarte; and the cup of gruel fell untasted from
her hands.

Having told this bitter falsehood, the guard picked up the fragments of
the broken cup, and, laughing sarcastically, left the cell, and locked
the door.

Britomarte remained with her hands lifted in appeal to Heaven.

Did she then believe the terrible tale? Not entirely; nor did the
mocking guard expect that she would do so.

But she was enfeebled and enervated in body and mind by her long
solitary confinement; and she succumbed to the shock of that
announcement before she could reflect upon its improbability.

When, however, she had time to recover her composure, and to arrange her
thoughts, she perceived that the guard had gone too far in hinting that
the mob proposed to lynch the illustrious prisoners said to have been
taken. And in utterly rejecting this part of the story as impossible,
she was led to question the whole of it as improbable. Though this
conclusion saved her from despair, it did not moderate her anxiety.

She pressed her face to the bars of her prison window, and watched and
listened with “all” her eyes and ears to discover if possible the true
cause of all the uproar in the city.

The night was now quite dark, or would have been so but for the gas
lamps at the corners.

A torrent of human beings rushed through the streets, a confusion of
many tongues rose on the air.

“What _can_ be the matter?” she asked of herself for the hundredth time.
“If there really should have been a recent Confederate victory, as the
guard stated, I shall soon know. In that case there will be an impromptu
and partial illumination to-night, and a concerted and general one
to-morrow night.”

But the hours crept on towards midnight, and there was no illumination.

Meanwhile the multitude of people, ever increasing in number and
gathering in force, continued to roll on like a river with resistless
impetuosity through the streets; and the babel of many voices to whirl
like a tornado in a ceaseless roar up into the midnight air. Yet these
voices were not the utterances of victors; these fierce invectives and
deep maledictions were not exclamations of joy or triumph!

What could be their purport then?

Britomarte could not answer. She could only watch and listen in intense
anxiety and awful suspense.

At length the bell of some neighboring public building tolled.

And simultaneously with this knell there rolled up into the cool night
air, against the clear purple sky, a huge, black, crimson and sulphurous
volume of smoke!

The illumination was about to appear, but not in the character she had
expected to see it.

This was a fire, she knew, but whence or where she knew not. She could
only watch and listen as before.

The black and crimson smoke speedily burst into flame, and all the earth
and all the heavens were lighted up as by a general conflagration.

So might have belched forth the subterranean fires of Vesuvius upon the
doomed cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii!

Viewed from her window, the scene was wild, splendid and magnificent
beyond description. Against the broadening sheets of flame the city
buildings stood up black, stark and spectral, while all the crowded
streets between them formed a Pandemonium.

The ocean of fire rolled on and on. Every nook of the city was intensely
illuminated. The inside of her own cell was so dazzlingly lighted up
that she had to close her eyes, at intervals, to relieve them of the
blinding glare. And the sea of flame rolled on and on!

And the horror was presently augmented, when, with tremendous reports
that rent the air and shook the ground like an earthquake, magazine
after magazine exploded, sending blazing timbers, bricks, mortar, and
every description of ignited missile, whirling through the city; while a
driving shower of sparks and burning coals fell like the rain of fire
that consumed Sodom and Gomorrah!

“Grant is before the inner line of intrenchments, and is shelling the
city,” was the natural conclusion of Britomarte, as she heard the
detonating thunder of the frequent explosions, the dreadful crash of
falling buildings, and the fierce cries of the infuriated mob; as she
saw the flood of flame and the rain of burning coals.

“And when he takes the city, at what a stupendous cost of life. It will
be utterly destroyed, with all its people. And we, the Union prisoners,
will find our only deliverance through a death by fire.”

And Britomarte sank to her knees, and covered her eyes, and bowed her
head, and prayed—not in fear for herself, for she was brave to meet the
fire, but in pity for the innocent children, the delicate women, the
suffering invalids, and all the helpless and harmless that she thought
must go down with the strong and the guilty in this general destruction.

Long and earnestly she prayed to the Lord of Heaven and earth to
mitigate the horrors of this most horrible night.

When at length she arose, and looked out upon the burning city, she
beheld a scene which, in its sublime terrors, overwhelmed her senses,
and brought to her appalled soul the vision of “that dreadful day, that
day of wrath,” when the firmament shall melt with a fervid heat, the
heavens be rolled together as a scroll, and the sun, moon and stars be
blotted out.

The flood of flame rolled and roared on and on with devouring fury; the
rain of fire and burning cinders fell thick and blinding as a hailstorm.
And the explosion of shells, torpedoes and powder magazines still rent
the sky and shook the earth. And the groans and the curses of men, and
the shrieks of women and children, filled the air!

Overcome with horror in her weakened condition, she who had often led
the charge in person to the very cannon’s mouth, now shrank away,
covered her face with her hands, reeled and fell on her prison floor in
a deadly swoon.

In a mercifully permitted unconsciousness, she lay for nearly two hours.

When she recovered day had dawned, and the unhallowed glare of the
conflagration was fading in the blessed beams of the rising sun.

There were no more explosions. The supposed bombardment seemed to have
ceased. And with its cessation, the shower of sparks, and burning
cinders, and the whirling storm of fiery missiles had passed away. The
flames still raged and roared up into the sky, but they did not seem to
spread, and they looked paler and less terrible by daylight. There was
still a multitudinous sound of many feet and many tongues in the
streets, but the character of these sounds had changed. They were eager,
joyous, triumphant!

Stiff and sore, bewildered and confused, she arose and went to the
grated window, and looked forth.

Oh! joy! joy! joy! Deliverance at last? The street was filled with a
procession of dark figures, but these figures wore the blue uniform of
the United States soldiers! She recognized them. Her regiment had stood
beside them on many a well-fought field, and last of all at Cold Harbor,
where she had been taken prisoner! They were a detachment of the colored
soldiers forming Weitzel’s Division of the gallant Ninth Corps.

And they were about to open her prison doors!

Now, while they halted in the middle of the street in front of the
prison, they were hailed and welcomed with tears and praises by the
colored population that filled the sidewalk.

They were officered by young white men; one of those attracted
Britomarte’s especial attention. He was a gallant little fellow, full of
fire, spirit and vivacity. He was mounted on a fine horse, and rode
hither and thither, maintaining order among his excited soldiers and
their overjoyed friends.

Britomarte knew him, or had known him, as little Mim, and he had known
and admired her but only as Miss Conyers. Afterwards, when she was known
as Captain Wing, and he as Private Mim, she had recognized him again,
but he had not identified her in her new character. At the battle of
Cold Harbor, where she had been taken prisoner, he had still been a
private. Now, however, he wore the uniform of a commissioned officer,
though of what grade she could not, from her point of view, determine.

She seized the bars of her grated window, and shook and rattled them;
she put her wasted hand through, them and waved it; she called and
shouted, but her voice was weak, and the din below was deafening; so
that she failed to attract attention until Major Mim, happening to look
up, saw the wasted hand waving through the grated window. He did not
recognize Miss Conyers then, but he saw that the pale hand belonged to
an imprisoned _woman_, and that was quite enough to fire the blood of
such a devoted “squire of dames” as Major Mim.

He had been just on the point of opening the prison doors to release
such of our people as he might happen to find there, this being his
appointed duty on the premises, but now he hurried his movements.

Calling to four or five subordinate officers to follow him, he entered
the prison. There were none to resist him. The guards had run away hours
before.

Britomarte, in her cell, heard the rushing footsteps of her deliverers.
They spread themselves throughout all the lobbies of the prison.

But the squad led by little Mim came hurrying towards her door, and
paused in much excitement before it. This door was locked and barred on
the outside, and it required some little time and force before it could
be broken open.

Then Major Mim, with his face fiery from exertion and excitement, rushed
in.

“You are free, Madam!” he exclaimed, lifting his cap to Britomarte, but
failing to recognize her.

“Don’t you know me”—she hesitated a moment to glance at his straps and
ascertain his precise rank—“Major Mim? Don’t you know me?”

“Heaven and earth! It is Miss Conyers!” exclaimed little Mim, in
consternation.

“Or what remains of her,” added Britomarte, with a wan smile.

“In the name of Providence, how came you here?” demanded Mim.

“I was taken as a suspected spy. The story is too long to tell you now,
Major. But tell me news of our army. I am dying, yes, dying to hear.”

“We have got Richmond,” said Mim.

“I see that. But Colonel Rosenthal?”

“He is with General Grant.”

“And General Grant?”

“Is gone after Lee.”

“And Lee?”

“In full retreat down the valley, half his army destroyed, the other
half doomed.”

“So Richmond is ours. Thank Heaven! But oh, why did you set the city on
fire? Was that necessary?”

“_We_ set the city on fire! No, thank Heaven, Miss Conyers, the crime of
burning this beautiful city does not rest on our souls. It seems to have
been set on fire either by the evacuating party or by the excited mob,
we do not know which, but we do know that when we marched in we found
the city in flames, and that our first business was to go to work, as
fast as we could, to put it out. And although the wretches that fired
the city also cut the hose, we are still, by the blessing of God,
bringing the flames under.”

“Thank Heaven for that! Tell me more news of our friends. Who has
fallen? Who survive?”

“Miss Conyers, it seems to me, speaking broadly, that all who are not
killed are promoted. Among the killed, Miss Conyers, is that gallant
young fellow they used to call the ‘Destroying Angel,’ on account of his
fiery impetuosity.”

“Who?” inquired Britomarte.

“You know—he who was so adored in the whole brigade. What was his name
again? I am the worst hand at names. I seem to get the idea without the
word. What was it again? Bird?—no. Dash?—no. Spring?—no. But it was
something with a _rush_ in it. WING! That was it. Ah, poor fellow!”

“What of him?” inquired Britomarte, suppressing a laugh.

“Missing—missing for nearly a year past. Dead, of course; lost among
heaps of dead in the trenches, or the rivers, or the woods, or in the
ditches of the Rebel prisons. Colonel Rosenthal has done all he could to
discover traces of his fate, but in vain. And I really think the
uncertainty wears upon the colonel.”

“Perhaps Wing may yet be found in some of the rebel prisons of
Richmond,” suggested Britomarte.

“Heaven grant it. Yet it is not likely. Come, Miss Conyers; you look
worn and wasted. Let me take you somewhere where you can be comfortably
lodged and refreshed. Colonel O’Neill has his quarters at the
Goldsborough House. His wife is with him. I know they will gladly
welcome you. Will you let me take you there for the present?”

“Thanks, yes! Anywhere—anywhere—out of this horrible place!” said
Britomarte.

Major Mim ordered an ambulance brought up, placed Miss Conyers in it,
and conveyed her to the quarters of Colonel O’Neill, where she was
warmly welcomed and affectionately tended by that gallant officer’s
amiable wife.




                             CHAPTER XLIV.
                             AFTER A WHILE.

      Kind hearts there are, yet would the tenderest one
      Have limits to its mercy; God has none.
      And man’s forgiveness may be true and sweet,
      But yet he stoops to give it. More complete
      Is love that lays forgiveness at thy feet,
      And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven
      Means CROWNED, not HUMBLED, when it says “Forgiven.”
                                                  —A. A. PROCTOR.


Let us reverently pass over that awful calamity of April the fourteenth,
which followed so swiftly upon the winged feet of Victory, quenching all
her lights of joy and of triumph in darkness and in blood. The Nation’s
holy sorrow is too sacred a subject to be treated here.

I take up my story at a point of time some weeks later, when the
unnatural and over-strained excitement of alternated joy and grief,
triumph and despair, had in some measure subsided, and the amazed and
distracted people had in some degree recovered self-possession and
calmness; when the victorious legions of the army had passed in grand
review before the President and all the high official dignitaries of the
Union, before all the resident representatives of foreign courts, and
above all, before the multitude of grateful and admiring fellow
countrymen, who had gathered in millions to do honor to their
patriotism, courage and devotion, and who, as they looked upon those
glorious veterans, thought that if every man of the rank and file was
not a commissioned officer, _nearly_ every one of them certainly
deserved to be so.

Promotions were made for “gallant and meritorious conduct in the
service”—that is, so far as there should be room for them. But if every
private soldier of the Union could have been advanced according to his
deserts, we should have had an army composed almost entirely of major
generals. There were thousands upon thousands of men in the ranks, as
brave, as true, as skillful, and as devoted, as many who commanded
divisions and corps; and if these could not all be promoted it was only
because, as I once heard a schoolboy captain demonstrate to his
discontented company, “_All cannot be corporals_.” But if we cannot
decorate every brave soldier with a pair of shoulder-straps, we can at
least give every one of them our heartfelt honor and esteem. As for us,
we never see the dear old faded blue uniform anywhere, but our hearts
warm to the wearer, as we think of the marchings and fightings, by day
and night, the fastings and vigils, the wounds and illnesses, the
exposure to freezing cold and burning heat, and all the inconceivable
sufferings incident to war which the soldier must have borne for our
sakes.

But this is a digression, and we must get back to our story.

It was a few days from those of the grand review. The armies had been
disbanded and sent home. The multitudes of visitors had left the city.
And Washington, which had for weeks been suffering under a plethora of
population, was relieved.

The parsonage, which like every other private house in Washington and
Georgetown had been filled with company, was now comparatively empty.

The parlor circle consisted only of Erminie, Elfie, Brigadier General
Rosenthal, Colonel Fielding and Captain Hay.

Lieutenant Colonel Mim and Captain Ethel were frequent visitors.

By this you will perceive, that all our friends of the army who had not
been killed were promoted.

They were not yet mustered out of the service, and they were all on duty
in Washington.

Poor young Wing was supposed to have died in one of the confederate
prisons; but it was noticeable that from the time General Rosenthal
learned the liberation of Miss Conyers from Castle Thunder, he ceased to
mourn the untimely fate of Wing.

Britomarte was not in Washington, and no one knew exactly where she was
at this time.

Immediately after her release from Castle Thunder she had written three
letters—one to Justin, announcing her safety, one to Erminie to the same
effect, and one to the Signora Adriana di Bercelloni. And within a week
after the posting of these letters, she had left Richmond for the North.
Lately she had written from New York, announcing her speedy return to
Washington. This letter, which was addressed to Justin, was immediately
answered by a joint one from the brother and sister, entreating
Britomarte to make the parsonage her home, and to let them know exactly
by what train she would arrive, that they might meet her at the station.
They were now waiting her reply.

It was yet early in the day, and the gentlemen had all walked out, and
Elfie was busy at her favorite pastime of decorating the drawing-room
with flowers, and Erminie, having issued all her domestic orders for the
day, was resting in an easy chair in her own chamber, when the sound of
wheels was heard turning into the gates and rolling up the avenue
towards the front of the house. It was not an unusual sound, for there
had been a great number of callers within the last few weeks, so that in
fact the inmates of the cottage were getting tired of them.

Elfie, pausing in the act of arranging a bouquet, uttered an exclamation
of disgust and wondered why people could not content themselves at home.

Erminie, seated in her resting-chair in the privacy of her own room,
hoped that the visitor might be no one whom she should be obliged to
see. And she waited for the appearance of the servant to announce the
name of the new comer.

But fifteen or twenty minutes passed and no servant appeared, though the
carriage still remained standing before the door.

“It is some one for Elfie,” said Erminie to herself, as she sank in her
chair to take her ease.

But at that moment she heard footsteps approaching the chamber, and the
next instant the door was thrown open by Elfie, who, pale and faint,
tottered into the chamber and sank into the nearest seat.

“Elfie! Elfie, my dear! in the name of mercy, what has happened?”
exclaimed Erminie, starting up in alarm, for the least terrible of her
conjectures was that some serious accident had occurred to her own
brother or to Elfie’s father.

“Noth—nothing has happened! Nothing bad, I mean! All good! Oh, Erminie!
how shall I tell you!” gasped Elfie, bursting into a passion of
hysterical tears and sobs.

The excess of joy weeps; the excess of anguish laughs.

“What? what is this? Who came in the carriage?” breathlessly gasped
Erminie, turning pale and cold, yet not with fear!

“Oh, Erminie, guess! try to guess! I am afraid to tell you! Who would
you rather see of all the world?” said Elfie, trembling.

Torrents of fire and of ice alternately seemed to sweep through the
system of the delicate girl, as the blood rushed to her head and receded
to her heart.

“My father! It is my dear father!” she cried, as she started up and
dashed from the room.

“Yes! it is he!” said Elfie.

The drawing-room door stood wide open.

Erminie flew in and was folded in the arms of her father.

He sank down on the sofa and drew her on his lap; and she dropped her
head upon his bosom and wept for joy.

And he clasped her in a closer embrace, and for the first few minutes
not one word was spoken between them.

Then the first syllables her lips could frame were of gratitude to
Heaven.

“Thank the Lord! Oh, thank the Lord!” she said.

“Amen,” solemnly responded the Lutheran minister.

“My father! Oh, my beloved father!”

“My dear, dear child!”

“Let me look at you! Is it you indeed? Is it indeed you?” she said,
raising her face from his bosom and pushing his head gently a little way
from her that she might examine him at will.

“You see it is I,” he said, smiling.

“But how thin you are! oh, how thin! how wasted your dear face is!
Father, you have suffered!” she said, kissing him tenderly and
repeatedly.

“But my sufferings are over now, dear child,” he said.

“You have been all this while in a Confederate prison! And it will take
time to restore you.”

“Yes, my child, it will take as many weeks and as many new-laid eggs to
build me up as it took to restore the renowned knight of La Mancha after
one of his campaigns,” said the old man, gaily.

“You suffered so much in that prison! But don’t try to tell me about it
now,” she added, hastily; “tell me what I shall do for you first. Have
you had a good breakfast this morning? Shall I ring for Bob to bring you
a pair of slippers and get a warm bath ready for you? Which first, dear
father? Oh, I am not in my right senses! I am mad with joy, or I should
know what to do at once without asking you. Let me take off your boots
like I used to do!”

And she would have gone down on her knees to perform this service if he
had not prevented her.

“Stay, my daughter. Sit where you are for the present. On my lap. I like
you here. I want to look into your face. And I want nothing more just
yet.—Changed, my Minie! somewhat changed you are in these four years.
Not so bright and blooming as you were; paler, thinner; but more lovely,
my darling—much more lovely. Ah, I know how you have passed these years,
my Minie. Even in my distant prison I heard of that young Lutheran
Sister of Christ whose tender mercies were over all sufferers that came
under her care—whether Rebel or Loyal. I will tell you about that
presently. But now tell me: how knew you so readily that I had been in
prison all this while? Who told you?”

“No one, my dear father. When I heard from Elfie that you had returned,
I easily divined it. Where else should you have been living all this
while, not to have come home to us? But besides that, dear father,
several months ago, nearly a year ago indeed, when my brain and nervous
system were in an abnormal and exalted condition from the effects of
illness and drugs, I had a dream or vision in which I saw you in
prison.”

“Dream? vision? My child, you surely do not attach any importance to
such very natural phenomena?”

“I don’t know, I will tell you all about my strange experience some
day—not now. I will only say _this_ now: that my dream left upon my mind
so strong an impression of your continued existence in this world, that
I was more overjoyed than surprised when Elfie came to announce your
return. And now that I see you before me, and hear you admit that you
were a captive confined in a Confederate prison, just as I dreamed you
were, I cannot help attaching some significance to my dream.”

“A mere coincidence, my little daughter. Millions of dreams amount to
nothing. But if one in a billion seems prophetic from an accidental
coincidence, it is immediately set down among supernatural phenomena.
Nonsense, my Minie! The wonder is, not that one dream in a billion
happens to coincide with something in real life, but that nearly all of
them do not. So you have been a little Sister of Charity in these years,
my Minie?”

“Yes, my father; but there was really no merit in that. My heart would
have broken else. I had to comfort others in order to sustain myself.”

“Did you then suffer so much, my Minie?” tenderly inquired her father.

“Not more, nor so much as many thousand women have suffered during this
war. But I believe that I was weaker than others, and more ready to
succumb to sorrow, if I had not kept myself up in the way I did. First
there came—But I will not talk to you of these things now. Father, dear
father, you know—How much do you know about Justin?” she asked after
some embarrassment and hesitation.

“I know _all_ about him, my dear child. I parted with him not an hour
ago, at his headquarters. I had to go there first, for there was one
with me who had important business with him. On reaching the city, I and
he who was with me inquired for Colonel Rosenthal’s address, and were
told that General Rosenthal was at his headquarters. So we went there
and spent two hours with him”

“My brother must have been—tremendously astonished and overjoyed.”

“He was, my darling. Justin is a stout man, and in the last four years
he has grown stouter. But when he saw me he was nearer swooning than I
ever saw a man in my life. He first arose to receive me, believing me to
be a stranger, but when he recognized me he turned white as death,
reeled, caught the edge of his table for support, and fell back into his
seat. It was a full minute before he could recover himself and welcome
me. You sustained the shock with more firmness, my Minie.”

“Because, dear father, it really was no such great shock to me. I say,
as I said before, that my dream had prepared me for your return, and I
was more overjoyed than surprised at it.”

“Still ‘harping’ on your dream, my darling. Never mind that. You have
suffered a great deal in these four dreadful years, my poor child.”

“But I suffer no longer, dear father. I have you and I have Justin, and
even my school friend, Britomarte, all safe. And I have not a sorrow in
the world now,” she said gaily.

“_Not one_, my Minie?” he inquired, very significantly.

The fair, bright face was suddenly overclouded and darkened. The one
unforgotten name arose to her lips. She covered her face with her hands,
and burst into tears.

“I thought so. I thought so, my child. But I did not mean to torture you
in vain. Hope, hope all things, my Minie,” her father said, as he drew
her closer to his heart, and soothed her gently.

Presently she raised her head, and wiped the tears from her eyes saying:

“How weak and foolish I am. How wrong and thankless to weep when I
should only rejoice. And I _do_ rejoice.

“Oh, my beloved father, I rejoice from the bottom of my heart, and thank
the Lord from the depths of my soul that you have returned to bless us
with your precious presence. I do, dear father, I do!”

“I know you do, my darling, only you would be still more joyful and
thankful if there could be _one other_ by my side as loyal as I am.”

“Oh, my dear father,” said Erminie, shrinking painfully, as one who had
a wound suddenly probed—“my dear father do not speak of that. Never mind
me. Let us talk of yourself. Since you will not let me do anything for
you but sit upon your knee, tell me, if it will not tire you to do so,
how it came about that you were reported dead, and that a body was found
and buried as your body, when in fact you were only taken prisoner? And
above all, how did it happen that you were kept in prison so long
without being exchanged, or being allowed to communicate with your
family?”

“It is a long story, my child, but I will try to tell it briefly. When
my regiment was at Manassas, it was desirable to ascertain the position
of the enemy, and the character of his defences. My colonel knew that
the general officers were very solicitous upon this point. He thought
secretly to procure the information, and to surprise them with it. He
proposed to me to exchange my uniform for the clergyman’s dress that I
had a right to wear, and in that costume, and with a bundle of tracts in
my carpet bag, to penetrate the enemy’s lines as an itinerant preacher,
distribute my tracts, pick up all the information I could get, and then
return to my regiment and give it to him.”

“Oh, my dear father, what a dangerous service to put you on, and at your
age, too!”

“My dear, we thought my age and clerical character would be the very
circumstances to save me from suspicion and arrest.”

“And so you went?”

“And so I went—myself and my colonel being only in the secret! In my
character of an old itinerant preacher, I succeeded in getting within
the enemy’s lines, where I distributed my tracts among the soldiers, and
preached proslavery from the text, ‘_Servants obey your masters_,’ and
secession from another text, ‘_Come out from among them_.’ I gained
‘golden opinions,’ and what is more, such important information in
regard to the strength, position and plans of the enemy that, could I
have succeeded in carrying it back to my colonel, it must have totally
changed the issue of that disastrous battle of Bull Run.”

“But you were taken!” sighed Erminie.

“I was taken! I started on my return, but some circumstance, of I know
not what nature, excited suspicion. I was followed, arrested, and
brought back.”

“Oh, my father! oh, my dear, dear father!” exclaimed Erminie, clasping
her hand.

“My child, you see me sitting here in safety; you feel my arms around
you; therefore you can bear to hear some hard facts. I will tell them as
shortly and plainly as possible. The result of my arrest was that I was
tried as a spy and condemned to die.”

“Father! father!” exclaimed Erminie, clasping him closer, as though he
were still in danger.

“Here I am, safe and well, little daughter! I owe my life to General
Eastworth! His services to the cause of the Confederacy were considered
very great; his influence was almost unbounded. He recognized me as soon
as he saw me, and without divulging my real name, which was not yet
discovered, he intervened at the proper point of time, and got my
death-sentence commuted to that of imprisonment during the war. I was
sent to a Confederate prison in Charleston.”

“And it was there I saw you in my dream,” murmured Erminie, but in a
voice too low to attract the attention of her father, who continued:

“I verily believe that Eastworth procured me to be sent to Charleston so
that he could watch over me, and mitigate the rigor of my captivity, for
he himself had just been ordered on duty thither. And he has served me
like a son for more than three years.”

“I am very glad to owe this deep debt of gratitude to General
Eastworth,” said Erminie in a low voice.

“You will be gladder still to learn that Eastworth, like the Prodigal
Son in the Scriptures, _has come to himself_!”

“Father! father! is this so? Is this really so?” gasped Erminie in a
low, breathless tone, as of suspended rapture.

“It is so, my girl, or I never would have brought up his name! There is
not a man in the country who mourns with a deeper sorrow over the fatal
madness of the secession than does General Eastworth. And not that the
cause is lost! for I feel sure that he would not only have mourned, but
despaired, could it have succeeded.”

“Oh, father! father! I never expected to be so happy in this world, or
scarcely even in Heaven, as you have made me with this news!” exclaimed
Erminie, as a ray of almost divine joy shone through the tears that
filled her eyes.

“I rejoice in your happiness, my darling child!”

“But how came this great change about, my father?”

“Who can tell that? Perhaps your tears that ever fell, your prayers that
ever rose for him, were effective! Perhaps your devotion to the
sufferers by this war brought a blessing on your head, and grace to him,
so that he was cured of his hallucination; for it _was_ hallucination
with him. The wisest and best of mortal men, Erminie, are subject to be
hallucinated by some master passion. With one man it may be love; with
another jealousy, hatred or revenge; with still another, avarice; and
with the nobler sort of man it is, too often, ambition! With Eastworth
it was ambition that warped his reason and silenced his conscience. And
this was not a narrow, personal desire for his own individual
aggrandizement, but a comparatively broad, unselfish aspiration, for the
establishment of his own section of the country into a nation, as
opposed to the whole country. In this he forgot, for a time, the
interests of humanity, the interests of posterity, all bound up in the
preservation, intact, of this Union.”

“But he remembers this now?”

“He remembers this now! Let me be just to Eastworth! It is _not_, I say,
the failure of the cause that has brought about this change in him. I
have seen a great deal of him in the last two years. This change has
been gradually coming over him in all that time.”

“But, father, dear father, he has laid himself liable to heavy penalties
of I know not what weight.”

“He has, my dear; but he is prepared to meet them like a man.”

“His property, his liberty, even his life is forfeit to the country, is
it not?” inquired Erminie, growing pale, as for the first time she
remembered his danger.

“My child, perhaps so, according to the strict letter of the law! But I
do not think the people of this country will have it so! There is no
reason on earth why we, the free and enlightened people of America
should follow the precedent afforded us by the mingled fear and cruelty
of the old world monarchies. We are too brave and strong to be
vindictive and despotic.”

“But what will Eastworth do, father?”

“In the first place he will not expatriate himself. Be sure of that. He
will trust himself to his country as a son to his mother.”

“And you think I have no reason to fear for him?”

“None; the names of some of the noblest among the Union officers are
pledges for his future good faith.”

Erminie heaved a sigh of infinite relief, and then said:

“But we have talked so much of him and so little of yourself, dear. How
was it, precious father, that you never let me know that you were
living?”

“My darling, the conditions of the commutation of my sentence from death
to imprisonment were that I should hold no communication whatever with
my friends across the lines. Even Eastworth, who did all that was in his
power to mitigate the severity of my fate, could not aid me in evading
these conditions, without a breach of trust. That was why I could not
write to you.”

“But I should have supposed some one of our men in the hands of the
Confederate authorities as prisoners of war, might have heard of your
captivity and reported it.”

“That was not likely. I was in a solitary cell, and confined under the
name in which I had been arrested. No one but Eastworth knew my real
name. And at my desire he kept it a secret. You heard me say just now,
my dear, that the fame of the little Lutheran Sister of Christ, who
ministered to the sick and wounded, whether Loyal or Rebel, had reached
me even in my distant Southern prison?”

“Yes, dear father.”

“I will tell you how that was. I once had a guard that was so very kind
to me, so extremely kind to me, that I one day asked him plainly why he
was so. He answered that he had been a wounded prisoner in the Douglass
Hospital at Washington, and that a young Union lady had saved his life
by her constant attentions to him, and by bringing him nice broths,
jellies, fruits, wine, tea and coffee, such as, at that time, could not
be furnished to the soldiers.”

“Yes,” said Erminie, “that must have been before the Sanitary and
Christian Commissions got into operation.”

“Do you remember this case, Erminie?”

“Dear father, there were so many such cases! I don’t remember this
particular one.”

“He remembers you. As long as he lives he will remember you! He talked
to me about you. He described your looks and manners and tone of voice.
He told me your name, and said that you had lost your father in the
first battle of Bull Run. He said that he should always be kind to the
Union prisoners for your sake. I longed to tell him that I was your
father; but I could not do so without disclosing my name, which I wished
to keep a secret—which _then_ more than ever I determined to keep a
secret.”

“But why, dear father?”

“Why?—For your sake more than for any other reason, my Minie!”

“For my sake!”

“Ay, ay! listen! You had mourned me as dead. Time and religion had
reconciled you to your loss, and softened your sorrow. But suppose you
had heard that I was living, and suffering a painful captivity in a
Southern prison? Would not all your wounds have been torn open afresh,
and kept open? Would not your heart have bled both day and night? Could
you have done your daily duty in the hospitals with the image of your
old father a captive in a Confederate prison, ever present to your
mind?”

“Oh no, no, no!”

“Therefore you see I was right in keeping the secret, and I kept it
religiously until the capture of Charleston.”

“That was several weeks ago?” said Erminie, interrogatively.

“By which you mean to ask why I did not hasten home immediately on being
released from prison. The reason was this my Minie. Almost
simultaneously with the capture of Charleston, I was seized with typhus
fever. I was ill some weeks. A man of my age seldom recovers from typhus
fever; and even when he does, he takes a long time to rally. As soon as
I was able to travel I set out for home. General Eastworth came with me,
to take care of me.”

“General Eastworth here—here in Washington!” she exclaimed, slightly
starting, flushing and paling.

“Yes, my Minie, and only waiting your permission to see him.”

“Oh, how shall I meet him? how must I meet him, my father?”

“As your true heart dictates, my child.”

She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.

“Why do you weep, my Minie?” her father asked, tenderly caressing her.

“I do not know. My heart is heavy with its burden of happiness! Oh, my
father, lay your hand upon my head and pray for me!—pray for me and
bless me! I am weak, and I tremble with my happiness! I am afraid—to be
so happy!”

And she shivered.

He smiled and laid his hand upon her head; he prayed for her and blessed
her, then he stooped and kissed her, arose and placed her gently in the
chair, and leaving her alone, stole silently from the room.

When Erminie looked up her father was gone, and her lover stood in his
place.

Pale, silent, sorrowful, mutilated, General Eastworth stood there,
looking down upon Erminie.

Her hands flew out to meet him.

“Oh, welcome! welcome! welcome!” she exclaimed, with all her heart’s
warmth welling up in the words.

“You welcome me, Miss Rosenthal! You welcome _me_?” he whispered, in
tones scarcely above his breath.

“With all my heart and soul! A thousand, thousand welcomes!” she cried,
with almost overpowering emotion.

“I come to you, Miss Rosenthal, to hear you confirm, if you will, the
gracious words you spoke to me on your bed of illness near death, that
night I came to your room at the risk of my life!”

“Then that was no dream! you were really beside me there!” she
exclaimed, wonderingly.

“I was really beside you there. Did you doubt it?”

“I was so ill that night, I never could feel certain of what happened.
And no one was able to assure me upon all points. But sit down! oh, sit!
How pale you are! You are not fit to stand!” she said.

“No, I am more fit to _kneel to you_,” he answered mournfully.

But she arose from the great arm-chair, and with gentle force, compelled
him to seat himself in it. Then she drew an ottoman forward and sat down
at his knees, as she had been accustomed to do in the early days of
their betrothal.

“I am so happy to have you here—oh, so unspeakably happy to have you
here! I never hoped to be so happy in this world again!” she fervently
exclaimed, as she placed her hand in his.

“What a welcome!” he said, as the tears rose to his eyes—his eyes that
were all unused to such moisture. “What a welcome, and how unworthy I am
to receive it! Do angels always welcome returning sinners so, Erminie?”

“Please do not speak of yourself so to me; to any one else you like, but
not to me! I am your betrothed, and I will hear no ill of you, even from
your own lips.”

“No, no, Erminie! no, no, you angel girl! I have not come to bind again
upon your young life bonds that were well broken years ago! I have
forfeited all right to such great happiness! All that is changed!”

“But my heart is not changed,” she murmured in a low tone, and blushing
deeply.

“My sweet child! when we were first betrothed I was twenty years older
than you; although, being then in perfect health, I did not seem so. And
my wealth was great, my social position high, and my name honored. Since
that time all is revolutionized with me.”

“But not with me; I am the same,” she murmured.

“Look at me, Erminie! See what time, toil, care, war, grief, pain,
remorse have done for me. I am old and gray and broken and mutilated,”
he said.

“But I love you,” she replied.

“To-day I am a poor and penniless man. To-morrow I may be an exile, or a
prisoner.”

“But I love you,” she repeated.

“And see—I am maimed! I have lost my right arm! And, worse than all, I
have lost it in a bad cause!”

“Poor right arm! I would I could give mine to restore it,” she said.

“And oh, Erminie! my once spotless name is stained with reproach. Could
you bear to wear it?”

“Yes, for I love you! Oh, my dearest! I have but that one little phrase
to answer all your words—‘I love you!’ Oh, my betrothed, I love you!”

He caught her in his arm, he strained her to his bosom, he burst into
tears and wept over her as only a strong man can weep.

“And oh!” he cried, “what shall I render unto the Lord for all His
loving kindness and tender mercy, in giving me this dear woman’s heart?

                        For only Heaven
        Means CROWNED, not _humbled_, when it says ‘forgiven!’”

So these two were reconciled, and this was but the forerunner of a
deeper and broader reconciliation yet to come.

General Eastworth, by the earnest invitation of Dr. Rosenthal, remained
as a guest at the parsonage.

At five o’clock in the afternoon Justin came in, accompanied by Mim and
Ethel. And a very pleasant dinner party closed the day.

It was very noticeable that Elfie, who had now nearly completed her
first year of mourning, received young Ethel’s attentions with less of
reserve than formerly.

Colonel Fielding certainly smiled on the young naval officer’s suit.

“Beyond my real esteem and admiration of the young fellow, and aside
from my interest in my daughter’s happiness and well-being, I have
really a selfish motive for wishing to promote this marriage,” the
colonel said in explanation to Dr. Rosenthal.

“And what may that be?” smiled the doctor.

“Why, as Elfie is my only child, I naturally feel a very great
reluctance to parting with her. And as Ethel will be at sea more than
two-thirds of the time, Elfie will be left with me. There! am I a
selfish old dog? I can not help it! The old widowed father of an only
daughter is very apt to be so,” said the colonel.

The morning succeeding the domiciliation of General Eastworth at the
parsonage, Erminie received a telegram from Britomarte, announcing that
she would arrive by the seven P. M. train from Baltimore.

And at the appointed hour Justin and Erminie went to the station to meet
her.

The train was up to time, and Britomarte was soon fondly received by the
brother and sister, who took her at once to their hearts and home.




                              CHAPTER XLV.
                       THE WOMAN’S DEAREST RIGHT.

              And thou shalt know, these arms once curled
              About thee, what we knew before,
              How LOVE is the greatest good in the world.
              Henceforth be loved, as heart can love,
              Or brain devise, or hand approve.—BROWNING.


The morning of the next day found Justin and Britomarte seated together
on a sofa in the drawing-room.

“Well, my dearest,” began Justin, in a low tone, as he took her hand and
tried to catch her eye, “is Britomarte prepared to ratify in Justin’s
favor the promise made by Wing to his wounded colonel?”

“Yes,” she answered frankly, “for it was a promise given unconditionally
and for all time.”

“And how soon shall it be redeemed, Britomarte?”

“As soon as you please—after you have heard something that I have to
tell you. Justin, you have heard a ‘secret’ in my family history darkly
hinted?”

“Yes; and I have heard you plainly assert that such a secret existed.
And I have told you that let it be what it might, it _could_ not affect
my love and esteem for you, or my earnest desire to make you my wife.”

“Thanks, warmest thanks for your generous trust in me, Justin. The
secret indeed was none of mine; nor has it turned out to be so dark an
one as I had dreaded. Fortunately it cannot affect us in any manner. But
you shall hear it, if only that you may know how it was that I grew up
to be a man-hater!”

“I always supposed that there must have been some deep wrong and
suffering at the bottom of all your man-hatred.”

“A long succession of wrongs and sufferings! But you shall hear,” she
said. “There really would seem to have been a spell laid upon the women
of our race; for as far back as we can follow household history, every
woman of our blood, from mother to daughter, has married miserably.”

“I hope that _your_ marriage will break the spell, Britomarte.”

“I _know_ that it will, dear Justin. But this curse really followed or
seemed to follow us from generation to generation.”

“And is there no tradition connected with it?” smiled Justin.

“None. Why?”

“Because there ought to be, you know. I am afraid your family are not
inventive, Miss Conyers. For this is just such a case as requires a
tradition to explain it. And such a tradition could be so easily
invented, to tell us what ancestress, by what crime, entailed the curse
upon all her female descendants. For instance, the tale might run—How in
the dark ages a certain fair nun of your race broke her vows of celibacy
in favor of a certain gay knight, and in becoming his wife, by that law
of retribution which visits the sins of the parents upon the children,
entailed upon all her daughters to the end of time the punishment of
misery in marriage. You are sure there is no such legend?”

“Quite,” said Britomarte, smiling. “And for the want of such a legend in
explanation of the mystery, I was obliged to seek the solution of the
problem in the inherent wickedness of men. When you hear the rest of my
story you will see how I found it there.”

“I can even now see that, Britomarte.”

“You will excuse me from speaking of my grandfather and my father,
though I remember both perfectly well.”

“Certainly, dearest, I understand. Whatever a man’s faults may be, it is
not for his descendants to discover them to others.”

“No. But nothing shall prevent my speaking of my brother-in-law. I had
one only sister—the daughter of my mother’s first marriage, for my
mother was married twice. This sister was sixteen years old and I was
four when our parents died and we were left to the care of a
grand-aunt.”

“Miss Pole?”

“Yes; but she lived in Washington city then, and saw a great deal of
company, and kept open house. My half sister was wealthy, having
inherited her father’s fortune, which was secured to her; I was
perfectly penniless, for _my_ father had unfortunately run through every
cent of my mother’s little property. While my sister lived single I
never knew a want. But she married—married miserably, like all her
foremothers had done. Her husband was the celebrated tenor, Adriano di
Bercelloni. She heard him sing at an opera, fell in love with him,
became mad, blind, desperate, threw herself in his way, went everywhere
she could see him, and finally attracted his attention. Mona was very
beautiful as well as very wealthy, and very much in love with the
fascinating tenor. The bait was tempting, the opportunity good, and so
the spendthrift opera singer ran away with the rich heiress.”

“Poor, infatuated girl!”

“Oh, she did but follow her fate, as all her predecessors had done
before her. But the rage of Aunt Pole was beyond all description.
Justin, I have seen something of war, but I have never seen anything so
terrible, so horrible as that old lady’s roused wrath!”

“I can well believe it. I have seen her once,” thought Justin to
himself.

“She stormed and raved and foamed. She forbade me, on pain of her
everlasting vengeance, ever to see, speak of, or _think_ about my
sister. I think the root of her bitterness grew in this fact—that she
had to leave her handsome city house, which really belonged to Mona, and
to break up her showy establishment, which she could no longer support
on Mona’s ample fortune. She sent me to school at Bellemont, and she
returned to Witch Elms, breathing maledictions upon all the world.”

“So that was the secret of her misanthropy.”

“Yes.”

“Go on, dear Britomarte.”

“I went to school, but I could not obey my aunt in regard to my sister.
I loved Mona; I had no one but her to love, and all the affections of my
heart were concentrated upon her, I _could_ not refrain from writing to
her. I knew that Bercelloni was singing in Paris. I wrote to my sister,
enclosing my letter to him. In that manner a correspondence was
commenced between my sister and myself, which was kept up until her
death.”

“She is dead, then?” said Justin, gently.

“She has been dead five years. I will tell you all about that presently.
In a very short time Bercelloni contrived to run through all my sister’s
fortune, wasting it upon wine, dice, and other abominations. And then he
left her.”

“The base villain!”

“He did but carry out the curse, as all his predecessors had done before
him. For more than a year I had not heard from my poor sister, when one
day, while still at school, I got a letter from her, postmarked New
York—a letter telling me that Bercelloni had left her, that at the time
of his marriage with herself he had another wife living, although of
course she had not suspected it—telling me also that she was in great
destitution, that her three children were all ill with diphtheria, and
that she had no money to buy them food or physic, and asking me, for
Heaven’s sake, to send her something, to keep her little ones from dying
of want.”

“Oh, my dear, what a sad trial for your young heart to bear.”

“No,” said Britomarte, “it was only the family fate. But oh, where was I
to get money? I had not a dollar in my purse; I had no jewelry or
trinkets such as girls usually have; I had not even a watch; I had only
a little gold thimble, the birth-day gift of my sister years before. It
had cost six dollars. I sold it for two to a schoolmate. I also sold all
my clothing, piece by piece, to the colored people of the neighborhood,
so that I had but a single change left. I had to do all this secretly,
and at the risk of discovery and expulsion from the school. But by the
sacrifice of effects worth perhaps sixty dollars I realized about
twenty, which I sent to poor Mona.”

“Ah, Britomarte! To have had the heaviest burdens of life forced upon
you when you were a mere school girl!”

“It was the family curse. The women, like the mules, had to bear all the
burdens, and like the scapegoats, had to carry all the crimes of the
men.”

“That is all past now, Britomarte—forever past. You shall bear no
burden, suffer no sorrow that I can intercept and take from you.”

“I know it, Justin. I know it. God make me worthy of you, and grateful
for your love.”

“Hush, hush, my dearest. No more of that. Go on with your domestic
history. What came next?”

“What came next? Ah, Justin, the money I sent poor Mona only helped to
bury her children. They all died. Meanwhile, she found a friend in the
widow of the elder Bercelloni. This poor woman had been the second wife
of the father, and was therefore only the step-mother of the son. She
was entirely dependent on her own exertions for a livelihood, for her
selfish step-son would do nothing for her. But the Signora kept poor
Mona from starving, and after a while procured her an engagement at the
same opera house where she herself was employed as chorus singer. But I
weary you with these petty family details.”

“No, no, not in the least. All that in the slightest degree concerns you
interests me. Go on, pray.”

“I heard but little of my sister for the next twelve months.
Meanwhile—But how is it that secrets transpire, Justin—do you know? And
above all, how is it that family secrets always come out in an
exaggerated form and distorted shape? Can any one tell?”

“Not _I_, at all events,” said Justin, smiling.

“My sister’s story transpired, but in a monstrous form. There was sin
and folly, it was whispered, but the folly and the sin were hers, it was
said. Suspicion fell even on me, of I know not what fault. Ah, you know
the poisonous malaria of slander that hung like a pestilential cloud
over me.”

“I know! I know! But it has cleared away, my dear—cleared away, and left
your sky all bright and sunny.”

“For a year or more, being my last year at school, I lived in this
deadly atmosphere. Then came the school examination. You remember all
that happened there?”

“I remember one thing that happened there distinctly. I met you. And for
the first time, and for the whole of my life, I loved. But proceed, my
dearest.”

“Do you remember while we were on the boat, waiting for her to get up
her steam, that a negro boy came running down from the schoolhouse, and
jumped aboard and handed me a letter?”

“That letter! Yes, and I remember your excessive agitation, your
retirement to your cabin, your isolation all that day and night, and the
awful sorrow on your brow next morning. I remember all, Britomarte.”

“That letter was from the Signora Adriana di Bercelloni. It announced to
me the news of my sister’s awful death. She was found one morning dead
in her bed, with her throat cut from ear to ear, and lying in a pool of
her own blood!”

“Great Heavens, Britomarte!”

Britomarte covered her face with her hands, and remained silent for a
few moments. Then she looked up and said:

“Do you wonder now at my strange demeanor on that occasion? You remember
that on my arrival at Washington, instead of going to Witch Elms, I
hastened immediately to the station to catch the train for New York?”

“Yes.”

“I reached the city the next day, and hurried to the humble lodgings of
the Signora and got her to accompany me to the house of my dead sister,
where the coroner’s inquest was still sitting. There we found the Signor
Adriano di Bercelloni under arrest and under strong suspicion. There,
partly from the information given me by the Signora, and partly from the
evidence elicited by the coroner’s inquest, I learned these facts: That
my sister had recovered her health and beauty; and had made considerable
progress in her art and in the favor of the public, so that at the time
of her death she was one of the most attractive singers in the house.
Bercelloni came to fulfil an engagement there that summer, and to his
amazement found Mona a member of the company and restored to all her
pristine bloom and beauty, and indeed more lovely and alluring than he
had ever known her to be.”

“Sorrow does sometimes give a last, perfecting touch to beauty,” said
Justin.

“Yes. Bercelloni seemed always to have loved my sister by fits and
starts. Now he took a violent fancy to her; a fancy that was stimulated
by jealousy into a keen vitality. But while she was very gracious to
every other member of the troupe, she would not vouchsafe a word or a
look to the man who had so basely deceived and deserted her.”

“She was right. Her course was the only correct one.”

“Yes, but it maddened him. He fiercely claimed her as his wife,
haughtily asserted a husband’s rights over her, and absolutely forbade
the manager of the Opera House to pay her salary to herself! He told
_her_ that the story of his having had another wife was a mere canard;
that there was no truth whatever in it; that he had only invented the
tale to tease her.”

“The monstrous villain! Who could believe him?”

“Not she, at all events. She denied his statements, ignored his claims,
and defied his anger. He become furiously, frantically jealous. And such
was the state of affairs between them, when one morning she was found
dead in her bed, and weltering in her blood, as I said. The coroner’s
inquest, with the usual perspicacity of such bodies, found their
verdict, ‘Suicide.’ And as ‘a melancholy case of suicide’ it was
recorded in the daily papers.”

“Oh, Britomarte! to think that you should have had this great sorrow and
we who loved you should have known nothing of it! Why, it is even
probable that I may have read that very paragraph describing the
‘melancholy case of suicide,’ without the slightest suspicion that it
was in the least degree connected with your life. But tell me, how in
the name of justice and common sense did Bercelloni get off so easily?”

“Oh, he proved an alibi by half a dozen witnesses.”

“Then after all he did not commit the crime.”

“Yes he did, but by another hand. He was just the sort of Italian
villain to hire a low ruffian to do the deed he feared to attempt. And
that was the way in which he managed it. Listen, Justin: At the time
that I came down to Washington on my way to the Rainbows, I went over to
Witch Elms to see my old aunt, to explain to her why I went to New York
so suddenly, and to ask her why she had not answered my letter in which
I had broken to her the news of Mona’s awful death. When I reached Witch
Elms the very first person whom I saw, the man who opened the door for
me, was—Dole, the confidential servant of Bercelloni. His sudden
appearance nearly deprived me of my breath. I could not understand why
_he_, of all men should be _there_, of all places. But he took my
message to the old lady, and while he was gone I went to the kitchen and
asked the old cook, Nan, how this man came to be there, and in what
capacity he served. She told me that her mistress had advertised for an
overseer for her farm, and that Dole had answered her advertisement, and
had offered himself and had been accepted; and moreover, that he had
already obtained a great influence over her mistress.”

“Was this person you speak of a very large man with a very small head,
closely cropped hair and closely shaven face?”

“Yes; why?”

“I saw him one night when I rode out to Witch Elms, to inquire for you,
that is all! go on, dearest.”

“Old Nan had scarcely finished her account of Mr. Dole, when that
gentleman returned to me with the information that my aunt would not see
me, and with my unopened letter in his hand.”

“What a strange old soul!”

“Well, Justin, I will not weary you with the repetition of all my
attempts to see my old relation. They were quite fruitless. She knew
that my sister was dead, and how she had died. She knew all that from
the public papers, but that did not melt her. She remained obdurate to
the last. Patience, dear Justin! my long, dark story is almost at an
end. I am about to give you the sequel of all this.”

“Go on, my dearest Britomarte, and believe that I am listening with the
deepest interest and closest attention.”

“I pass on to the week of her death. I was here at the Parsonage helping
to nurse your sister at that time, you remember?”

“Certainly.”

“The doctor came one morning and announced to me the death of my aunt,
and placed a packet in my hand. It consisted of a half dozen newspapers,
with certain passages marked in them. These passages related to the
arrest, trial and execution of a guerrilla named Norse, alias Dipper,
alias DOLE. It was stated that he had confessed to having committed nine
highway robberies, seventeen successful burglaries, and five murders.
With these papers there was a written manuscript and a note. The note
was from the chaplain of the prison in which he was confined. It was
addressed to Miss Pole. It explained that the accompanying manuscript
was the attested confession of the prisoner. Justin, I have that
document by me; would you like to look at it?”

“Not now, dearest; I would rather you would tell me its contents. What
did the dying culprit confess?”

“First to having murdered ‘Madame Mona’ as my sister was called, for the
sum of a thousand dollars, paid him for the service by the Signor
Adriano di Bercelloni.”

“Horrible!”

“Then to various other offences which would have seemed like felonies,
except by the side of that one enormous crime.”

“You left the Parsonage soon after the receipt of that packet.”

“Yes; I could not maintain my self-possession sufficiently well to make
me serviceable in a sick room. So I hastened back to my regiment to lose
the keen sense of sorrow in active military service.”

“Oh, my dear Britomarte! your experience of men has indeed been very
bitter!”

“So bitter—so stringent, Justin, that it contracted and warped my
judgment, until I attributed to your whole sex the follies and crimes
that I had found only in the evil men immediately about me! And not only
in my own generation, and in my sister’s life, but in the lives of my
mother and my grandmother. Yes, Justin, it is true this strange chain of
coincidences has run through many ages. If all the women of my race had
been like me—proud, defiant, high-spirited, the phenomena might have
been easily explained. It might have been said that they were a race of
viragos who had nothing better to expect than misery in marriage. But
this was not the case, at least with my immediate foremothers. No
gentler women ever lived than were my mother and my grandmother.”

“But Britomarte, those gentle women, by too deep a submission, ruin
their domestic happiness as often as the high-spirited do by their
resistance. Men are not gods, dear love, and so they are very often
spoiled by women. But there is no danger of _your_ spoiling _me_ in that
manner, dear Britomarte,” laughed Justin.

“Indeed there is not,” she answered. “And for this reason—because _you_
would never abuse the power that the law gives you over the outer
circumstances of your wife’s life, or that she herself gives you over
the inner world of her affections.”

“I think you do me justice, dear.”

“Ah, Justin, I grew up both in feelings and in principles a man-hater.
My narrow personal experiences gave strength, bitterness and intensity
to my feelings, and the frequent discussions of the topic of the day,
‘Woman’s Rights,’ gave form, shape and consistency to my opinions. And I
became a very perfect man-hater.”

She paused and looked at him.

He was contemplating her with deep tenderness, but he made no
observation, and she continued:

“It was at this very flood tide of my young soul’s life that I first met
you, Justin. And soon, to my consternation, I found that I—a pledged
man-hater—was loving you, Justin! loving you with my whole heart, just
as all the women of my race had loved men, to their own destruction. How
I hated and scorned myself for this love! how I struggled against it,
battled with it, trampled on it, tried to tear it up, root it out, and
utterly destroy it, you well know.”

“Ah!” smiled Justin.

“Because you see I did not believe in man’s love. When you said to me,
‘I love you—I want you for my wife,’ I interpreted your words to mean
just this—‘like your looks, and I want you for my slave.’ Can you wonder
that I resisted my own love and resented yours?”

He did not answer. He was still contemplating her with ineffable
tenderness and infinite love. And as she met his eyes, her eyes
softened, beamed and dilated, her cheeks and lips glowed, and her whole
countenance grew beautiful and radiant from the soul’s inner light and
life.

“But oh, Justin!” she murmured, “as my knowledge of you grew, and my
love deepened, what a change came over my spirit! First I learned that,
though all other men might be false and base, you were true and noble.
Next came the lesson learned on the Desert Island, where I found by
experience how utterly helpless woman was without her brother man. I saw
that though in civilized countries, which men had already made habitable
for women, by the building of cities, houses and roads; the manufacture
of furniture, clothing and utensils; and the promotion of arts, sciences
and education,—a single woman might live well enough; yet, in a
wilderness, where nothing had been done—where there were no habitations,
no manufactures, no planted crops—woman could not possibly exist without
man; though he might live without her. This was a humiliating truth to
the proud man-hater; but it _was_ truth, and as such she accepted it.”

“But man would have no motive to live or to labor, if it were not for
his sister, woman,” answered Justin.

“Then,” she continued, “the war broke out. And that glorious, awful
trial brought out all the grandest traits of manhood—his patriotism,
courage, fortitude, self-devotion—until oh, Justin, from being a
man-hater, I have almost become a man-worshipper!”

“No, don’t!” he said, laughing gaily, catching her hand and pressing it
to his lips; “don’t do it! In great seriousness, I shouldn’t like that.
Of the two extreme alternatives, I would rather you should continue to
be a man-hater, with a single exception in my favor.”

Britomarte smiled at this speech. And before the smile had left her
lips, Elfie opened the door; but seeing them alone, was about to close
it again, when Britomarte called to her:

“Come in, Elfie!”

She entered, saying:

“There is a couple out in the hall, inquiring for General Rosenthal.
They are on their way to the North, but have stopped till the next train
for the sake of calling to see the General.”

Justin immediately went out into the hall, where he found Tom and
Judith.

They were looking remarkably well; and the Irish woman was eager in her
expressions of joy at seeing her old friend, and anxious in her
inquiries about Miss Conyers. Justin stepped to the drawing-room door
and called Britomarte out.

And there ensued a meeting a great deal more noisy and demonstrative, if
not so deeply emotional as any we have recorded.

Judith and Tom had made money enough in the war to cover twenty times
over their losses by Monck’s capture of their wagon. And they were now
going to New York to start in the grocery and provision line of
business. Their time was limited and they soon took leave, amid the
kindest wishes for their future welfare.

Since Britomarte’s arrival at the Parsonage, she had noticed that Elfie
often looked at her with very roguish eyes. So the first time she found
herself alone with that wild young woman, Miss Conyers said:

“Now I want you to tell me what that means? Out with it, Elfie.”

“I must! I can’t keep it any longer! I want to tell you that I knew, if
nobody else did, who was the spy that penetrated into the camp of the
Free Sword!”

“Oh, Elfie, speak no more of that! It was a stern military necessity,
but it will ever remain with me, one of the darkest memories of the
war!”

“How many names and how many wigs had you, Britomarte—Wing, Dill,
Gill?—You were a very pretty boy in the blue-black curled wig, as Dill;
but you were a hideous little fellow, in the short-cropped flaxen wig,
as Wing?”

“Elfie,” said Miss Conyers, very seriously, “Dill is missing and will
never be found. Wing is dead and buried. Except yourself, there is but
one person in this world who knows my identity with those two names. How
you have discovered the secret I do not know! But I must put you on your
honor to respect it.”

“Here!” said Elfie, lifting a Bible from a centre table, “I will bind
myself by a solemn oath never to mention it again to any living soul!
not even to Ethel, my betrothed! not even to you! Will that satisfy
you?”

“Perfectly, my dear,” answered Miss Conyers, kissing Elfie.

                  *       *       *       *       *

One month later there were three weddings at the Parsonage.

Captain Ethel and Elfie were married and sent off to Colonel Fielding’s
renovated home at Sunnyslopes, to spend a short honeymoon. And it was
agreed that during Ethel’s absences at sea, Elfie should reside there
and keep house for her father, and that should be Ethel’s “anchorage”
whenever he should be ashore.

General Eastworth and Erminie were united, and started at once for his
home in Virginia, where it was arranged that Doctor Rosenthal should
soon join them, with the intention of residing with them, and helping
them in their efforts to restore order and industry in their own section
of country, and to promote peace and good will between the North and the
South.

Justin and Britomarte were the third couple wedded. It was decided that
they should reside at the Parsonage until Justin should be mustered out
of the service. They went on a short tour through the Northern States;
but returned in time to celebrate the Great Thanksgiving of that year at
home. The very next morning after their arrival, as they were seated
together, Justin took up the morning paper, where, among other
interesting items, he saw the advertisement of a celebrated lady
lecturer, who was announced to deliver a discourse at a certain church
that evening, on the great subject of Woman’s Rights.

“Ah, by the way! How about Woman’s Rights now, sweet wife?” said Justin,
as he called her attention to the advertisement.

“While I live,” answered Britomarte, “I will advocate the rights of
woman—_in general_. But for my individual self, the only right I plead
for is woman’s dearest right—to be loved to my heart’s content all the
days of my life!”


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.