"Is that why you were working over that map of the city last night?" she

asked.

"I was trying to see how Lyon would dispose his troops. I meant to tell

you about a gentleman we met in the street car, a Major Sherman who used

to be in the army. Mr. Brinsmade knows him, and Judge Whipple, and many

other prominent men here. He came to St. Louis some months ago to take

the position of president of the Fifth Street Line. He is the keenest,

the most original man I have ever met. As long as I live I shall never

forget his description of Lyon."

"Is the Major going back into the army?" said Mrs. Brice, Stephen did not

remark the little falter in her voice. He laughed over the recollection

of the conversation in the street car.

"Not unless matters in Washington change to suit him," he said. "He thinks

that things have been very badly managed, and does not scruple to say so

anywhere. I could not have believed it possible that two men could have

talked in public as he and Judge Whipple did yesterday and not be shot

down. I thought that it was as much as a man's life is worth to mention

allegiance to the Union here in a crowd. And the way Mr. Sherman pitched

into the Rebels in that car full of people was enough to make your hair

stand on end."

"He must be a bold man," murmured Mrs. Brice.

"Does he think that the--the Rebellion can be put down?"

"Not with seventy-five thousand men, nor with ten times that number."

Mrs. Brice sighed, and furtively wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

"I am afraid we shall see great misery, Stephen," she said.

He was silent. From that peaceful little room war and its horrors seemed

very far away. The morning sun poured in through the south windows and

was scattered by the silver on the sideboard. From above, on the wall,

Colonel Wilton Brice gazed soberly down. Stephen's eyes lighted on the

portrait, and his thoughts flew back to the boyhood days when he used to

ply his father with questions about it. Then the picture had suggested

only the glory and honor which illumines the page of history. Something

worthy to look back upon, to keep ones head high. The hatred and the

suffering and the tears, the heartrending, tearing apart for all time of

loving ones who have grown together,--these were not upon that canvas,

Will war ever be painted with a wart?

The sound of feet was heard on the pavement. Stephen rose, glancing at

his mother. Her face was still upon her knitting.

"I am going to the Arsenal," he said. "I must see what as happening."

To her, as has been said, was given wisdom beyond most women. She did not

try to prevent him as he kissed her good-by. But when the door had shut

behind him, a little cry escaped her, and she ran to the window to strain

her eyes after him until he had turned the corner below.

His steps led him irresistibly past the house of the strange flag,

ominously quiet at that early hour. At sight of it anger made him hot

again. The car for South St. Louis stood at the end of the line, fast

filling with curious people who had read in their papers that morning of

the equipment of the new troops. There was little talk among them, and

that little guarded.

It was a May morning to rouse a sluggard; the night air tingled into life

at the touch of the sunshine, the trees in the flitting glory of their

first green. Stephen found the shaded street in front of the Arsenal

already filled with an expectant crowd. Sharp commands broke the silence,

and he saw the blue regiments forming on the lawn inside the wall. Truly,

events were in the air,--great events in which he had no part.

As he stood leaning against a tree-box by the curb, dragged down once

more by that dreaded feeling of detachment, he heard familiar voices

close beside him. Leaning forward, he saw Eliphalet Hopper and Mr.

Cluyme. It was Mr. Cluyme who was speaking.

"Well, Mr. Hopper," he said, "in spite of what you say, I expect you are

dust as eager as I am to see what is going on. You've taken an early

start this morning for sightseeing."

Eliphalet's equanimity was far from shaken.

"I don't cal'late to take a great deal of stock in the military," he

answered. "But business is business. And a man must keep an eye on what

is moving."

Mr. Cluyme ran his hand through his chop whiskers, and lowered his voice.

"You're right, Hopper," he assented. "And if this city is going to be

Union, we ought to know it right away."

Stephen, listening with growing indignation to this talk, was unaware of

a man who stood on the other side of the tree, and who now came forward

before Mr. Hopper. He presented a somewhat uncompromising front. Mr.

Cluyme instantly melted away.

"My friend," said the stranger, quietly, "I think we have met before,

when your actions were not greatly to your credit. I do not forget a

face, even when I see it in the dark. Now I hear you utter words which

are a disgrace to a citizen of the United States. I have some respect for

a rebel. I have none for you, sir."

As soon as Stephen recovered from the shock of his surprise, he saw that

Eliphalet had changed countenance. The manner of an important man of

affairs, which he hay so assiduously cultivated, fell away from him. He

took a step backward, and his eyes made an ugly shift. Stephen rejoiced

to see the stranger turn his back on the manager of Carvel & Company

before that dignitary had time to depart, and stand unconcernedly there

as if nothing had occurred.

Then Stephen stared at him.

He was not a man you would look at twice, ordinarily, he was smoking a

great El Sol cigar. He wore clothes that were anything but new, a slouch

hat, and coarse grained, square-toed boots. His trousers were creased at

the knees. His head fell forward a little from his square shoulders, and

leaned a bit to one side, as if meditatively. He had a light brown beard

that was reddish in the sun, and he was rather short than otherwise.

This was all that Stephen saw. And yet the very plainness of the man's

appearance only added to his curiosity. Who was this stranger? His words,

his action, too, had been remarkable. The art of administering a rebuke

like that was not given to many men. It was perfectly quiet, perfectly

final. And then, when it was over, he had turned his back and dismissed

it.

Next Stephen began to wonder what he could know about Hopper. Stephen had

suspected Eliphalet of subordinating principles to business gain, and

hence the conversation with Mr. Cluyme had given him no shock in the way

of a revelation, But if Hopper were a rogue, ought not Colonel Carvel to

hear it? Ought not he, Stephen Brice, to ask this man with the cigar what

he knew, and tell Judge Whipple? The sudden rattle of drums gave him a

start, and cruelly reminded him of the gulf of prejudice and hatred fast

widening between the friends.

All this time the stranger stood impassively chewing his cigar, his hand

against the tree-box. A regiment in column came out of the Arsenal gate,

the Union leader in his colonel's uniform, on horseback at its head. He

pulled up in the street opposite to Stephen, and sat in his saddle,

chatting with other officers around him.

Then the stranger stepped across the limestone gutter and walked up to

the Colonel's horse, He was still smoking. This move, too, was surprising

enough, It argued even more assurance. Stephen listened intently.

"Colonel Blair, my name is Grant," he said briefly.

The Colonel faced quickly about, and held out his gloved hand cordially,

"Captain Ulysses Grant," said he; "of the old army?"

Mr. Grant nodded.

"I wanted to wish you luck," he said.

"Thank you, Grant," answered the Colonel. "But you? Where are you living

now?"

"I moved to Illinois after I left here," replied Mr. Grant, as quietly as

before, "and have been in Galena, in the Leather business there. I went

down to Springfield with the company they organized in Galena, to be of

any help I could. They made me a clerk in the adjutant general's office

of the state I ruled blanks, and made out forms for a while." He paused,

as if to let the humble character of this position sink into the

Colonel's comprehension. "Then they found out that I'd been quartermaster

and commissary, and knew something about military orders Now I'm a state

mustering officer. I came down to Belleville to muster in a regiment,

which wasn't ready. And so I ran over here to see what you fellows were

doing."

If this humble account had been delivered volubly, and in another tone,

it is probable that the citizen-colonel would not have listened, since

the events of that day were to crown his work of a winter. But Mr. Grant

possessed a manner of holding attention.. It was very evident, however;

that Colonel Blair had other things to think of. Nevertheless he said

kindly:

"Aren't you going in, Grant?"

"I can't afford to go in as a captain of volunteers," was the calm reply:

"I served nine years in the regular army and I think I can command a

regiment."

The Colonel, whose attention was called away at that moment, did not

reply. Mr. Grant moved off up the street. Some of the younger officers

who were there, laughed as they followed his retreating figure.

"Command a regiment!" cried one, a lieutenant whom Stephen recognized as

having been a bookkeeper at Edwards, James, & Doddington's, and whose

stiff blue uniform coat creased awkwardly. "I guess I'm about as fit to

command a regiment as Grant is."

"That man's forty years old, if he's a day," put in another. "I remember

when he came here to St. Louis in '54, played out. He'd resigned from the

army on the Pacific Coast. He put up a log cabin down on the Gravois

Road, and there he lived in the hardest luck of any man I ever saw until

last year. You remember him, Joe."

"Yep," said Joe. "I spotted him by the El Sol cigar. He used to bring a

load of wood to the city once in a while, and then he'd go over to the

Planters' House, or somewhere else, and smoke one of these long fellows,

and sit against the wall as silent as a wooden Indian. After that he came

up to the city without his family and went into real estate one winter.

But he didn't make it go. Curious, it is just a year ago this month than

he went over to Illinois. He's an honest fellow, and hard working enough,

but he don't know how. He's just a dead failure."

"Command a regiment!" laughed the first, again, as of this in particular

had struck his sense of humor. "I guess he won't get a regiment in a

hurry, There's lots of those military carpet-baggers hanging around for

good jobs now."

"He might fool you fellows yet," said the one caller, though his tone was

not one of conviction. "I understand he had a first-rate record an the

Mexican War."

Just then an aide rode up, and the Colonel gave a sharp command which put

an end to this desultory talk. As the First Regiment took up the march,

the words "Camp Jackson" ran from mouth to mouth on the sidewalks.

Catching fire, Stephen ran with the crowd, and leaping on passing street

car, was borne cityward with the drums of the coming hosts beating in his

ears.

In the city, shutters were going up on the stores. The streets were

filled with, restless citizens seeking news, and drays were halted here

and there on the corners, the white eyes and frenzied calls of the negro

drivers betraying their excitement. While Stephen related to his mother

the events of the morning, Hester burned the dinner. It lay; still

untouched, on the table when the throbbing of drums sent them to the

front steps. Sigel's regiment had swung into the street, drawing in its

wake a seething crowd.

Three persons came out of the big house next door. One was Anna

Brinsmade; and there was her father, his white hairs uncovered. The third

was Jack. His sister was cringing to him appealingly, and he struggling

in her grasp. Out of his coat pocket hung the curved butt of a pepperbox

revolver.

"Let me go, Anne!" he cried. "Do you think I can stay here while my

people are shot down by a lot of damned Dutchman?"

"John," said Mr. Brinsmade, sternly, "I cannot let you join a mob. I

cannot let you shoot at men who carry the Union flag."

"You cannot prevent me, sir," shouted the young man, in a frenzy. "When

foreigners take our flag for them own, it is time for us to shoot them

down."

Wrenching himself free, he ran down the steps and up the street ahead of

the regiment. Then the soldiers and the noisy crowd were upon them and

while these were passing the two stood there as in a dream. After that

silence fell upon the street, and Mr. Brinsmade turned and went back into

the house, his head bowed as in prayer. Stephen and his mother drew back,

but Anne saw them.

"He is a rebel," she faltered. "It will break my father's heart."

She looked at Stephen appealingly, unashamed of the tears in her eyes.

Then she, too went in.

"I cannot stay here mother," he said.

As he slammed the gate, Anne ran down the steps calling his name. He

paused, and she caught his sleeve.

"I knew you would go," she said, "I knew you would go. Oh, Stephen, you

have a cool head. Try to keep Jack--out of mischief."

He left her standing on the pavement. But when he reached the corner and

looked back he saw that she had gone in at his own little gate to meet

his mother. Then he walked rapidly westward. Now and again he was stopped

by feverish questions, but at length he reached the top of the second

ridge from the river, along which crowded Eighteenth Street now runs.

There stood the new double mansion Mr. Spencer Catherwood had built two

years before on the outskirts of the town, with the wall at the side, and

the brick stable and stable yard. As Stephen approached it, the thought

came to him how little this world's goods avail in times of trouble. One

of the big Catherwood boys was in the blue marching regiment that day,

and had been told by his father never again to darken his doors. Another

was in Clarence Colfax's company of dragoons, and still another had fled

southward the night after Sumter.

Stephen stopped at the crest of the hill, in the white dust of the

new-turned street, to gaze westward. Clouds were gathering in the sky,

but the sun still shone brightly, Half way up the rise two blue lines had

crawled, followed by black splotches, and at the southwest was the glint

of the sun on rifle barrels. Directed by a genius in the art of war, the

regiments were closing about Camp Jackson.

As he stood there meditating and paying no attention to those who hurried

past, a few familiar notes were struck on a piano. They came through the

wide-shuttered window above his head. Then a girl's voice rose above the

notes, in tones that were exultant:--

"Away down South in de fields of cotton,

Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom,

Look away, look away, Look away, look away.

Den I wish I was in Dixie's Land,

Oh, oh! oh, oh!

In Dixie's Land I'll take my stand,

And live and die in Dixie's Land.

Away, away, away.

Away down South in Dixie."

The song ceased amid peals of girlish laughter. Stephen was rooted to the

spot.

"Jinny! Jinny Carvel, how dare you!" came through the shutters. "We shall

have a whole regiment of Hessians in here."

Old Uncle Ben, the Catherwoods' coachman, came out of the stable yard.

The whites of his eyes were rolling, half in amusement, half in terror.

Seeing Stephen standing there, he exclaimed:

"Mistah Brice, if de Dutch take Camp Jackson, is we niggers gwinter be

free?"

Stephen did not answer, for the piano had started again,

"If ever I consent to be married,

And who could refuse a good mate?

The man whom I give my hand to,

Must believe in the Rights of the State."

More laughter. Then the blinds were flung aside, and a young lady in a

dress of white trimmed with crimson stood in the window, smiling.

Suddenly she perceived Stephen in the road. Her smile faded. For an

instant she stared at him, and then turned to the girls crowding behind

her. What she said, he did not wait to hear. He was striding down the

hill.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TENTH OF MAC

Would the sons of the first families surrender, "Never!" cried a young

lady who sat behind the blinds in Mrs. Catherwood's parlor. It seemed to

her when she stopped to listen for the first guns of the coming battle

that the tumult in her heart would drown their roar.

"But, Jinny," ventured that Miss Puss Russell who never feared to speak

her mind, "it would be folly for them to fight. The Dutch and Yankees

outnumber them ten to one, and they haven't any powder and bullets."

"And Camp Jackson is down in a hollow," said Maude Catherwood, dejectedly.

And yet hopefully, too, for at the thought of bloodshed she was near to

fainting.

"Oh," exclaimed Virginia, passionately, "I believe you want them to

surrender. I should rather see Clarence dead than giving his sword to a

Yankee."

At that the other two were silent again, and sat on through an endless

afternoon of uncertainty and hope and dread in the darkened room. Now and

anon Mr. Catherwood's heavy step was heard as he paced the hall. From

time to time they glanced at Virginia, as if to fathom her thought. She

and Puss Russell had come that day to dine with Maude. Mr. Catherwood's

Ben, reeking of the stable, had brought the rumor of the marching on the

camp into the dining-room, and close upon the heels of this the rumble of

the drums and the passing of Sigel's regiment. It was Virginia who had

the presence of mind to slam the blinds in the faces of the troops, and

the crowd had cheered her. It was Virginia who flew to the piano to play

Dixie ere they could get by, to the awe and admiration of the girls and

the delight of Mr. Catherwood who applauded her spirit despite the

trouble which weighed upon him. Once more the crowd had cheered,--and

hesitated. But the Dutch regiment slouched on, impassive, and the people

followed.

Virginia remained at the piano, her mood exalted patriotism, uplifted in

spirit by that grand song. At first she had played it with all her might.

Then she sang it. She laughed in very scorn of the booby soldiers she had

seen. A million of these, with all the firearms in the world, could not

prevail against the flower of the South. Then she had begun whimsically

to sing a verse of a song she had heard the week before, and suddenly her

exaltation was fled, and her fingers left the keys. Gaining the window,

trembling, half-expectant, she flung open a blind. The troops, the

people, were gone, and there alone in the road stood--Stephen Brice. The

others close behind her saw him, too, and Puss cried out in her surprise.

The impression, when the room was dark once more, was of sternness and

sadness,--and of strength. Effaced was the picture of the plodding

recruits with their coarse and ill-fitting uniforms of blue.

Virginia shut the blinds. Not a word escaped her, nor could they tell

why--they did not dare to question her then. An hour passed, perhaps two,

before the shrill voice of a boy was heard in the street below.

"Camp Jackson has surrendered!"

They heard the patter of his bare feet on the pavement, and the cry

repeated.

"Camp Jackson has surrendered!"

And so the war began for Virginia. Bitter before, now was she on fire.

Close her lips as tightly as she might, the tears forced themselves to

her eyes. The ignominy of it!

How hard it is for us of this age to understand that feeling.

"I do not believe it!" she cried. "I cannot believe it!"

The girls gathered around her, pale and frightened and anxious. Suddenly

courage returned to her, the courage which made Spartans of Southern

women. She ran to the front door. Mr. Catherwood was on the sidewalk,

talking to a breathless man. That man was Mr. Barbo, Colonel Carvel's

book-keeper.

"Yes," he was saying, "they--they surrendered. There was nothing else for

them to do. They were surrounded and overpowered."

Mr. Catherwood uttered an oath. But it did not shock Virginia.

"And not a shot fired?" he said.

"And not a shot fired?" Virginia repeated, mechanically. Both men turned.

Mr. Barbo took off his hat.

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, how could they!" exclaimed Virginia.

Her words seemed to arouse Mr. Catherwood from a kind of stupor. He

turned, and took her hand.

"Virginia, we shall make them smart for this yet, My God!" he cried,

"what have I done that my son should be a traitor, in arms against his

own brother fighting for his people? To think that a Catherwood should be

with the Yankees! You, Ben," he shouted, suddenly perceiving an object

for his anger. "What do you mean by coming out of the yard? By G-d, I'll

have you whipped. I'll show you niggers whether you're to be free or

not."

And Mr. Catherwood was a good man, who treated his servants well.

Suddenly he dropped Virginia's hand and ran westward down the hill. Well

that she could not see beyond the second rise.

Let us go there--to the camp. Let us stand on the little mound at the

northeast of it, on the Olive Street Road, whence Captain Lyon's

artillery commands it. What a change from yesterday! Davis Avenue is no

longer a fashionable promenade, flashing with bright dresses. Those quiet

men in blue, who are standing beside the arms of the state troops,

stacked and surrendered, are United States regulars. They have been in

Kansas, and are used to scenes of this sort.

The five Hessian regiments have surrounded the camp. Each commander has

obeyed the master mind of his chief, who has calculated the time of

marching with precision. Here, at the western gate, Colonel Blair's

regiment is in open order. See the prisoners taking their places between

the ranks, some smiling, as if to say all is not over yet; some with

heads hung down, in sulky shame. Still others, who are true to the Union,

openly relieved. But who is this officer breaking his sword to bits

against the fence, rather than surrender it to a Yankee? Listen to the

crowd as they cheer him. Listen to the epithets and vile names which they

hurl at the stolid blue line of the victors, "Mudsills!" "Negro

Worshippers."

Yes, the crowd is there, seething with conflicting passions. Men with

brows bent and fists clenched, yelling excitedly. Others pushing, and

eager to see,--there in curiosity only. And, alas, women and children by

the score, as if what they looked upon were not war, but a parade, a

spectacle. As the gray uniforms file out of the gate, the crowd has

become a mob, now flowing back into the fields on each side of the road,

now pressing forward vindictively until stopped by the sergeants and

corporals. Listen to them calling to sons, and brothers, and husbands in

gray! See, there is a woman who spits in a soldier's face!

Throughout it all, the officers sit their horses, unmoved. A man on the

bank above draws a pistol and aims at a captain. A German private steps

from the ranks, forgetful of discipline, and points at the man, who is

cursing the captain's name. The captain, imperturbable, orders his man

back to his place. And the man does not shoot--yet.

Now are the prisoners of that regiment all in place between the two files

of it. A band (one of those which played lightsome music on the birthday

of the camp) is marched around to the head of the column. The regiment

with its freight moves on to make place for a battalion of regulars, amid

imprecations and cries of "Hurrah for Jeff Davis!" and "Damn the Dutch!

Kill the Hessians!"

Stephen Brice stood among the people in Lindell's Grove, looking up at

the troops on the road, which was on an embankment. Through the rows of

faces he had searched in vain for one. His motive he did not attempt to

fathom--in truth, he was not conscious at the time of any motive. He

heard the name shouted at the gate.

"Here they are,--the dragoons! Three cheers for Colfax! Down with the

Yankees!"

A storm of cheers and hisses followed. Dismounted, at the head of his

small following, the young Captain walked erect. He did not seem to hear

the cheers. His face was set, and he held his gloved hand over the place

where his sword had been, as if over a wound. On his features, in his

attitude, was stamped the undying determination of the South. How those

thoroughbreds of the Cavaliers showed it! Pain they took lightly. The

fire of humiliation burned, but could not destroy their indomitable

spirit. They were the first of their people in the field, and the last to

leave it. Historians may say that the classes of the South caused the

war; they cannot say that they did not take upon themselves the greatest

burden of the suffering.

Twice that day was the future revealed to Stephen. Once as he stood on

the hill-crest, when he had seen a girl in crimson and white in a window,

--in her face. And now again he read it in the face of her cousin. It was

as if he had seen unrolled the years of suffering that were to come.

In that moment of deep bitterness his reason wavered. What if the South

should win? Surely there was no such feeling in the North as these people

betrayed. That most dangerous of gifts, the seeing of two sides of a

quarrel, had been given him. He saw the Southern view. He sympathized

with the Southern people. They had befriended him in his poverty. Why had

he not been born, like Clarence Colfax, the owner of a large plantation,

the believer in the divine right of his race to rule?

Then this girl who haunted his thoughts! Would that his path had been as

straight, his duty as easy, as that of the handsome young Captain.

Presently these thoughts were distracted by the sight of a back strangely

familiar. The back belonged to a, gentleman who was energetically

climbing the embankment in front of him, on the top of which Major

Sexton, a regular, army officer, sat his horse. The gentleman was pulling

a small boy after him by one hand, and held a newspaper tightly rolled in

the other. Stephen smiled to himself when it came over him that this

gentleman was none other than that Mr. William T. Sherman he had met in

the street car the day before. Somehow Stephen was fascinated by the

decision and energy of Mr. Sherman's slightest movements. He gave Major

Saxton a salute, quick and genial. Then, almost with one motion he

unrolled the newspaper, pointed to a paragraph, and handed it to the

officer. Major Saxton was still reading when a drunken ruffian clambered

up the bank behind them and attempted to pass through the lines. The

column began to move forward. Mr. Sherman slid down the bank with his boy

into the grove beside Stephen. Suddenly there was a struggle. A corporal

pitched the drunkard backwards over the bank, and he rolled at Mr.

Sherman's feet. With a curse, he picked himself up, fumbling in his

pocket. There was a flash, and as the smoke rolled from before his eyes,

Stephen saw a man of a German regiment stagger and fall.

It was the signal for a rattle of shots. Stones and bricks filled the

air, and were heard striking steel and flesh in the ranks. The regiment

quivered,--then halted at the loud command of the officers, and the ranks

faced out with level guns, Stephen reached for Mr. Sherman's boy, but a

gentleman had already thrown him and was covering his body. He contrived

to throw down a woman standing beside him before the mini-balls swished

over their heads, and the leaves and branches began to fall. Between the

popping of the shots sounded the shrieks of wounded women and children,

the groans and curses of men, and the stampeding of hundreds.

"Lie down, Brice! For God's sake lie down!" Mr. Sherman cried.

He was about to obey when a young; man, small and agile, ran past him

from behind, heedless of the panic. Stopping at the foot of the bank he

dropped on one knee, resting his revolver in the hollow of his left arm.

It, was Jack Brinsmade. At the same time two of the soldiers above

lowered their barrels to cover him. Then smoke hid the scene. When it

rolled away, Brinsmade lay on the ground. He staggered to his feet with

an oath, and confronted a young man who was hatless, and upon whose

forehead was burned a black powder mark.

"Curse you!" he cried, reaching out wildly, "curse you, you d--d Yankee.

I'll teach you to fight!"

Maddened, he made a rush at Stephen's throat. But Stephen seized his

hands and bent them down, and held them firmly while he kicked and

struggled.

"Curse you!" he panted; "curse you, you let me go and I'll kill you,--you

Yankee upstart!"

But Stephen held on. Brinsmade became more and more frantic. One of the

officers, seeing the struggle, started down the bank, was reviled, and

hesitated. At that moment Major Sherman came between them.

"Let him go, Brice," he said, in a tone of command. Stephen did as he was

bid. Whereupon Brinsmade made a dash for his pistol on the ground. Mr.

Sherman was before him.

"Now see here, Jack," he said, picking it up, "I don't want to shoot you,

but I may have to. That young man saved your life at the risk of his own.

If that fool Dutchman had had a ball in his gun instead of a wad, Mr.

Brice would have been killed."

A strange thing happened. Brinsmade took one long look at Stephen, turned

on his heel, and walked off rapidly through the grove. And it may be

added that for some years after he was not seen in St. Louis.

For a moment the other two stood staring after him. Then Mr. Sherman took

his boy by the hand.

"Mr. Brice," he said, "I've seen a few things done in my life, but

nothing better than this. Perhaps the day may come when you and I may

meet in the army. They don't seem to think much of us now," he added,

smiling, "but we may be of use to 'em later. If ever I can serve you, Mr.

Brice, I beg you to call on me."

Stephen stammered his acknowledgments. And Mr. Sherman, nodding his head

vigorously, went away southward through the grove, toward Market Street.

The column was moving on. The dead were being laid in carriages, and the

wounded tended by such physicians as chanced to be on the spot. Stephen,

dazed at what had happened, took up the march to town. He strode faster

than the regiments with their load of prisoners, and presently he found

himself abreast the little file of dragoons who were guarded by some of

Blair's men. It was then that he discovered that the prisoners' band in

front was playing "Dixie."

They are climbing the second hill, and are coming now to the fringe of

new residences which the rich citizens have built. Some of them are

closed and dark. In the windows and on the steps of others women are

crying or waving handkerchiefs and calling out to the prisoners, some of

whom are gay, and others sullen. A distracted father tries to break

through the ranks and rescue his son. Ah, here is the Catherwood house.

That is open. Mrs. Catherwood, with her hand on her husband's arm, with

red eyes, is scanning those faces for the sight of George.

Will he ever come back to her? Will the Yankees murder him for treason,

or send him North to languish the rest of his life? No, she will not go

inside. She must see him. She will not faint, though Mrs. James has,

across the street, and is even now being carried into the house. Few of

us can see into the hearts of those women that day, and speak of the

suffering there.

Near the head of Mr. Blair's regiment is Tom. His face is cast down as he

passes the house from which he is banished. Nor do father, or mother, or

sister in their agony make any sound or sign. George is coming. The

welcome and the mourning and the tears are all for him.

The band is playing "Dixie" once more. George is coming, and some one

else. The girls are standing in a knot bend the old people, dry-eyed,

their handkerchiefs in their hands. Some of the prisoners take off their

hats and smile at the young lady with the chiselled features and brown

hair, who wears the red and white of the South as if she were born to

them. Her eyes are searching. Ah, at last she sees him, walking erect at

the head of his dragoons. He gives her one look of entreaty, and that

smile which should have won her heart long ago. As if by common consent

the heads of the troopers are uncovered before her. How bravely she waves

at them until they are gone down the street! Then only do her eyes fill

with tears, and she passes into the house.

Had she waited, she might have seen a solitary figure leaving the line of

march and striding across to Pine Street.

That night the sluices of the heavens were opened, and the blood was

washed from the grass in Lindell Grove. The rain descended in floods on

the distracted city, and the great river rose and flung brush from

Minnesota forests high up on the stones of the levee. Down in the long

barracks weary recruits, who had stood and marched all the day long, went

supperless to their hard pallets.

Government fare was hard. Many a boy, prisoner or volunteer, sobbed

himself to sleep in the darkness. All were prisoners alike, prisoners of

war. Sobbed themselves to sleep, to dream of the dear homes that were

here within sight and sound of them, and to which they were powerless to

go. Sisters, and mothers, and wives were there, beyond the rain, holding

out arms to them.

Is war a thing to stir the blood? Ay, while the day lasts. But what of

the long nights when husband and wife have lain side by side? What of the

children who ask piteously where their father is going, and who are

gathered by a sobbing mother to her breast? Where is the picture of that

last breakfast at home? So in the midst of the cheer which is saddest in

life comes the thought that, just one year ago, he who is the staff of

the house was wont to sit down just so merrily to his morning meal,

before going to work in the office. Why had they not thanked God on their

knees for peace while they had it?

See the brave little wife waiting on the porch of her home for him to go

by. The sun shines, and the grass is green on the little plot, and the

geraniums red. Last spring she was sewing here with a song on her lips,

watching for him to turn the corner as he came back to dinner. But now!

Hark! Was that the beat of the drums? Or was it thunder? Her good

neighbors, the doctor and his wife, come in at the little gate to cheer

her. She does not hear them. Why does God mock her with sunlight and with

friends?

Tramp, tramp, tramp! They are here. Now the band is blaring. That is his

company. And that is his dear face, the second from the end. Will she

ever see it again? Look, he is smiling bravely, as if to say a thousand

tender things. "Will, are the flannels in your knapsack? You have not

forgotten that medicine for your cough?" What courage sublime is that

which lets her wave at him? Well for you, little woman, that you cannot

see the faces of the good doctor and his wife behind you. Oh, those guns

of Sumter, how they roar in your head! Ay, and will roar again, through

forty years of widowhood!

Mrs. Brice was in the little parlor that Friday night, listening to the

cry of the rain outside. Some thoughts such as these distracted her. Why

should she be happy, and other mothers miserable? The day of reckoning

for her happiness must surely come, when she must kiss Stephen a brave

farewell and give him to his country. For the sins of the fathers are

visited on the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them

that hate Him who is the Ruler of all things.

The bell rang, and Stephen went to the door. He was startled to see Mr.

Brinsmade. That gentleman was suddenly aged, and his clothes were wet and

spattered with mud. He sank into a chair, but refused the spirits and

water which Mrs. Brice offered him in her alarm.

"Stephen," he said, "I have been searching the city for John. Did you see

him at Camp Jackson--was he hurt?"

"I think not, sir," Stephen answered, with clear eyes.

"I saw him walking southward after the firing was all over."

"Thank God," exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, fervently. "If you will excuse me,

madam, I shall hurry to tell my wife and daughter. I have been able to

find no one who saw him."

As he went out he glanced at Stephen's forehead. But for once in his

life, Mr. Brinsmade was too much agitated to inquire about the pain of

another.

"Stephen, you did not tell me that you saw John," said his mother, when

the door was closed.

CHAPTER XX

IN THE ARSENAL

There was a dismal tea at Colonel Carvel's house in Locust Street that

evening Virginia did not touch a mouthful, and the Colonel merely made a

pretence of eating. About six o'clock Mrs. Addison Colfax had driven in

from Bellegarde, nor could it rain fast enough or hard enough to wash the

foam from her panting horses. She did not wait for Jackson to come out

with an umbrella, but rushed through the wet from the carriage to the

door in her haste to urge the Colonel to go to the Arsenal and demand

Clarence's release. It was in vain that Mr. Carvel assured her it would

do no good, in vain that he told her of a more important matter that

claimed him. Could there be a more important matter than his own nephew

kept in durance, and in danger of being murdered by Dutch butchers in the

frenzy of their victory? Mrs. Colfax shut herself up in her room, and

through the door Virginia heard her sobs as she went down to tea.

The Colonel made no secret of his uneasiness. With his hat on his head,

and his hands in his pockets, he paced up and down the room. He let his

cigar go out,--a more serious sign still. Finally he stood with his face

to the black window, against which the big drops were beating in a fury.

Virginia sat expressionless at the head of the table, still in that gown

of white and crimson, which she had worn in honor of the defenders of the

state. Expressionless, save for a glance of solicitation at her father's

back. If resolve were feminine, Virginia might have sat for that

portrait. There was a light in her dark blue eyes. Underneath there were

traces of the day's fatigue. When she spoke, there was little life in her

voice.

"Aren't you going to the Planters' House, Pa The Colonel turned, and

tried to smile.

"I reckon not to-night, Jinny. Why?"

"To find out what they are going to do with Clarence," she said

indignantly.

"I reckon they don't know at the Planters' House," he said.

"Then--" began Virginia, and stopped.

"Then what?" he asked, stroking her hair.

"Then why not go to the Barracks? Order the carriage, and I will go with

you."

His smile faded. He stood looking down at her fixedly, as was sometimes

his habit. Grave tenderness was in his tone.

"Jinny," he said slowly, "Jinny, do you mean to marry Clarence?"

The suddenness of the question took her breath. But she answered

steadily:

"Yes."

"Do you love him?

"Yes," she answered. But her lashes fell.

Still he stood, and it seemed to her that her father's gaze pierced to

her secret soul.

"Come here, my dear," he said.

He held out his arms, and she fluttered into them. The tears were come at

last. It was not the first time she had cried out her troubles against

that great heart which had ever been her strong refuge. From childhood

she had been comforted there. Had she broken her doll, had Mammy Easter

been cross, had lessons gone wrong at school, was she ill, or weary with

that heaviness of spirit which is woman's inevitable lot,--this was her

sanctuary. But now! This burden God Himself had sent, and none save her

Heavenly Father might cure it. Through his great love for her it was

given to Colonel Carvel to divine it--only vaguely.

Many times he strove to speak, and could not. But presently, as if

ashamed of her tears, she drew back from him and took her old seat on the

arm of his chair.

By the light of his intuition, the Colonel chose tins words well. What he

had to speak of was another sorrow, yet a healing one.

"You must not think of marriage now, my dear, when the bread we eat may

fail us. Jinny, we are not as rich as we used to be. Our trade was in the

South and West, and now the South and West cannot pay. I had a conference

with Mr. Hopper yesterday, and he tells me that we must be prepared."

She laid her hand upon his.

"And did you think I would care, dear?" she asked gently. "I can bear

with poverty and rags, to win this war."

"His own eyes were dim, but pride shone in them. Jackson came in on

tiptoe, and hesitated. At the Colonel's motion he took away the china and

the silver, and removed the white cloth, and turned low the lights in the

chandelier. He went out softly, and closed the door.

"Pa," said Virginia, presently, "do you trust Mr. Hopper?"

The Colonel gave a start.

"Why, yes, Jinny. He improved the business greatly before this trouble

came. And even now we are not in such straits as some other houses."

"Captain Lige doesn't like him."

"Lige has prejudices."

"So have I," said Virginia. "Eliphalet Hopper will serve you so long as

he serves himself. No longer."

"I think you do him an injustice, my dear," answered the Colonel. But

uneasiness was in his voice. "Hopper is hard working, scrupulous to a

cent. He owns two slaves now who are running the river. He keeps out of

politics, and he has none of the Yankee faults."

"I wish he had," said Virginia.

The Colonel made no answer to this. Getting up, he went over to the

bell-cord at the door and pulled it. Jackson came in hurriedly.

"Is my bag packed?"

"Yes, Marsa."

"Where are you going?" cried Virginia, in alarm.

"To Jefferson City, dear, to see the Governor. I got word this

afternoon."

"In the rain?"

He smiled, and stooped to kiss her.

"Yes," he answered, "in the rain as far as the depot, I can trust you,

Jinny. And Lige's boat will be back from New Orleans to-morrow or

Sunday."

The next morning the city awoke benumbed, her heart beating but feebly.

Her commerce had nearly ceased to flow. A long line of boats lay idle,

with noses to the levee. Men stood on the street corners in the rain,

reading of the capture of Camp Jackson, and of the riot, and thousands

lifted up their voices to execrate the Foreign City below Market Street.

A vague terror, maliciously born, subtly spread. The Dutch had broken up

the camp, a peaceable state institution, they had shot down innocent

women and children. What might they not do to the defenceless city under

their victorious hand, whose citizens were nobly loyal to the South? Sack

it? Yes, and burn, and loot it. Ladies who ventured out that day crossed

the street to avoid Union gentlemen of their acquaintance.

It was early when Mammy Easter brought the news paper to her mistress.

Virginia read the news, and ran joyfully to her aunt's room. Three times

she knocked, and then she heard a cry within. Then the key was turned and

the bolt cautiously withdrawn, and a crack of six inches disclosed her

aunt.

"Oh, how you frightened me, Jinny!" she cried. "I thought it was the

Dutch coming to murder us all, What have they done to Clarence?"

"We shall see him to-day, Aunt Lillian," was the joyful answer. "The

newspaper says that all the Camp Jackson prisoners are to be set free

to-day, on parole. Oh, I knew they would not dare to hold them. The whole

state would have risen to their rescue."

Mrs. Colfax did not receive these tidings with transports. She permitted

her niece to come into her room, and then: sank into a chair before the

mirror of her dressing-table, and scanned her face there.

"I could not sleep a wink, Jinny, all night long. I look wretchedly. I am

afraid I am going to have another of my attacks. How it is raining! What

does the newspaper say?"

"I'll get it for you," said Virginia, used to her aunt's vagaries.

"No, no, tell me. I am much too nervous to read it."

"It says that they will be paroled to-day, and that they passed a

comfortable night."

"It must be a Yankee lie," said the lady. "Oh, what a night! I saw them

torturing him in a thousand ways the barbarians! I know he had to sleep

on a dirty floor with low-down trash."

"But we shall have him here to-night, Aunt Lillian!" cried Virginia.

"Mammy, tell Uncle Ben that Mr. Clarence will be here for tea. We must

have a feast for him. Pa said that they could not hold them."

"Where is Comyn?" inquired Mrs. Colfax. "Has he gone down to see

Clarence?"

"He went to Jefferson City last night," replied Virginia. "The Governor

sent for him."

Mrs. Colfax exclaimed in horror at this news.

"Do you mean that he has deserted us?" she cried. "That he has left us

here defenceless,--at the mercy of the Dutch, that they may wreak their

vengeance upon us women? How can you sit still, Virginia? If I were your

age and able to drag myself to the street, I should be at the Arsenal

now. I should be on my knees before that detestable Captain Lyon, even if

he is a Yankee." Virginia kept her temper.

"I do not go on my knees to any man," she said. "Rosetta, tell Ned I wish

the carriage at once."

Her aunt seized her convulsively by the arm.

"Where are you going, Jinny?" she demanded. "Your Pa would never forgive

me if anything happened to you."

A smile, half pity, crossed the girl's anxious face.

"I am afraid that I must risk adding to your misfortune, Aunt Lillian,"

she said, and left the room.

Virginia drove to Mr. Brinsmade's. His was one of the Union houses which

she might visit and not lose her self respect. Like many Southerners,

when it became a question of go or stay, Mr. Brinsmade's unfaltering love

for the Union had kept him in. He had voted for Mr. Bell, and later had

presided at Crittenden Compromise meetings. In short, as a man of peace,

he would have been willing to sacrifice much for peace. And now that it

was to be war, and he had taken his stand uncompromisingly with the

Union, the neighbors whom he had befriended for so many years could not

bring themselves to regard him as an enemy. He never hurt their feelings;

and almost as soon as the war began he set about that work which has been

done by self-denying Christians of all ages,--the relief of suffering. He

visited with comfort the widow and the fatherless, and many a night in

the hospital he sat through beside the dying, Yankee and Rebel alike, and

wrote their last letters home.

And Yankee and Rebel alike sought his help and counsel in time of

perplexity or trouble, rather than hotheaded advice from their own

leaders.

Mr. Brinsmade's own carriage was drawn up at his door; and that gentleman

himself standing on the threshold. He came down his steps bareheaded in

the wet to hand Virginia from her carriage.

Courteous and kind as ever, he asked for her father and her aunt as he

led her into the house. However such men may try to hide their own trials

under a cheerful mien, they do not succeed with spirits of a kindred

nature. With the others, who are less generous, it matters not. Virginia

was not so thoughtless nor so selfish that she could not perceive that a

trouble had come to this good man. Absorbed as she was in her own

affairs, she forgot some of them in his presence. The fire left her

tongue, and to him she could not have spoken harshly even of an enemy.

Such was her state of mind, when she was led into the drawing-room. From

the corner of it Anne arose and came forward to throw her arms around her

friend.

"Jinny, it was so good of you to come. You don't, hate me?"

"Hate you, Anne dear!"

"Because we are Union," said honest Anne, wishing to have no shadow of

doubt.

Virginia was touched. "Anne," she cried, "if you were German, I believe I

should love you."

"How good of you to come. I should not have dared go to your house,

because I know that you feel so deeply. You--you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Virginia, alarmed.

"That Jack has run away--has gone South, we think. Perhaps," she cried,

"perhaps he may be dead." And tears came into the girl's eyes.

It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence. She drew Anne to the sofa and

kissed her.

"No, he is not dead," she said gently, but with a confidence in her voice

of rare quality. "He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would have heard."

Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade's eye upon her. He

looked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for those

whom he honored. A life of service to others had made him guess that, in

the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of some

kind.

"Virginia is right, Anne," he said. "John has gone to fight for his

principles, as every gentleman who is free should; we must remember that

this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, because we think

differently." He paused, and came over to Virginia. "There is something I

can do for you, my dear?" said he.

She rose. "Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade," she cried. And yet her honesty was as

great as Anne's. She would not have it thought that she came for other

reasons. "My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I came

to ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to be

paroled. She thinks it is a--" Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellious

tongue. "She does not believe it."

Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made. He

understood the girl, and admired her. He also understood Mrs. Colfax.

"I'll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny," he answered. "I know

Captain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly."

"You will do nothing of the kind, sir," said Virginia, with emphasis."

Had I known this--about John, I should not have come."

He checked her with a gesture. What a gentleman of the old school he was,

with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eye kindling

with charity.

"My dear," he answered, "Nicodemus is waiting. I was just going myself to

ask Captain Lyon about John." Virginia's further objections were cut

short by the violent clanging of the door-bell, and the entrance of a

tall, energetic gentleman, whom Virginia had introduced to her as Major

Sherman, late of the army, and now president of the Fifth Street

Railroad. The Major bowed and shook hands. He then proceeded, as was

evidently his habit, directly to the business on which he was come.

"Mr. Brinsmade," he said, "I heard, accidentally, half an hour ago that

you were seeking news of your son. I regret to say, sir, that the news I

have will not lead to a knowledge of his whereabouts. But in justice to a

young gentleman of this city I think I ought to tell you what happened at

Camp Jackson."

"I shall be most grateful, Major. Sit down, sir."

But the Major did not sit down. He stood in the middle of the room. With

some gesticulation which added greatly to the force of the story, he gave

a most terse and vivid account of Mr. John's arrival at the embankment by

the grove--of his charging a whole regiment of Union volunteers. Here was

honesty again. Mr. Sherman did not believe in mincing matters even to a

father and sister.

"And, sir," said he, "you may thank the young man who lives next door to

you--Mr. Brice, I believe--for saving your son's life."

"Stephen Brice!" exclaimed Mr, Brinsmade, in astonishment.

Virginia felt Anne's hand tighten But her own was limp. A hot wave swept

over her, Was she never to hear the end of this man.

"Yes, sir, Stephen Brice," answered Mr. Sherman. "And I never in my life

saw a finer thing done, in the Mexican War or out of it."

Mr. Brinsmade grew a little excited. "Are you sure that you know him?"

"As sure as I know you," said the Major, with excessive conviction.

"But," said Mr. Brinsmade, "I was in there last night, I knew the young

man had been at the camp. I asked him if he had seen Jack. He told me

that he had, by the embankment. But he never mentioned a word about

saving his life."

"He didn't," cried the Major. "By glory, but he's even better than I

thought him, Did you see a black powder mark on his face?"

"Why, yes, sir, I saw a bad burn of some kind on his forehead."

"Well, sir, if one of the Dutchmen who shot at Jack had known enough to

put a ball in his musket, he would have killed Mr. Brice, who was only

ten feet away, standing before your son."

Anne gave a little cry--Virginia was silent--Her lips were parted. Though

she realized it not, she was thirsting %a hear the whole of the story.

The Major told it, soldier fashion, but well. How John rushed up to the

line. How he (Mr. Sherman) had seen Brice throw the woman down and had

cried to him to lie down himself how the fire was darting down the

regiment, and how men and women were falling all about them; and how

Stephen had flung Jack and covered him with his body.

It was all vividly before Virginia's eyes. Had she any right to treat

such a man with contempt? She remembered hour he had looked, at her when

he stood on the corner by the Catherwoods' house. And, worst of all, she

remembered many spiteful remarks she had made, even to Anne, the gist of

which had been that Mr. Brice was better at preaching than at fighting.

She knew now--and she had known in her heart before--that this was the

greatest injustice she could have done him.

"But Jack? What did Jack do?"

It was Anne who tremblingly asked the Major. But Mr. Sherman, apparently,

was not the man to say that Jack would have shot Stephen had he not

interfered. That was the ugly part of the story. John would have shot the

man who saved his life. To the day of his death neither Mr. Brinsmade nor

his wife knew this. But while Mr. Brinsmade and Anne had gone upstairs to

the sickbed, these were the tidings the Major told Virginia, who kept it

in her heart. The reason he told her was because she had guessed a part

of it.

Nevertheless Mr. Brinsmade drove to the Arsenal with her that Saturday,

in his own carriage. Forgetful of his own grief, long habit came to him

to talk cheerily with her. He told her many little anecdotes of his

travel, but not one of them did she hear. Again, at the moment when she

thought her belief in Clarence and her love for him at last secure, she

found herself drawing searching comparisons between him and the quieter

young Bostonian. In spite of herself she had to admit that Stephen's deed

was splendid. Was this disloyal? She flushed at the thought. Clarence had

been capable of the deed,--even to the rescue of an enemy. But--alas,

that she should carry it out to a remorseless end--would Clarence have

been equal to keeping silence when Mr. Brinsmade came to him? Stephen

Brice had not even told his mother, so Mr. Brinsmade believed.

As if to aggravate her torture, Mr. Brinsmade's talk drifted to the

subject of young Mr. Brice. This was but natural. He told her of the

brave struggle Stephen had made, and how he had earned luxuries, and

often necessities, for his mother by writing for the newspapers.

"Often," said Mr. Brinsmade, "often I have been unable to sleep, and have

seen the light in Stephen's room until the small hours of the morning."

"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," cried Virginia. "Can't you tell me something bad

about him? Just once."

The good gentleman started, and looked searchingly at the girl by his

side, flushed and confused. Perhaps he thought--but how can we tell what

he thought? How can we guess that our teachers laugh at our pranks after

they have caned us for them? We do not remember that our parents have

once been young themselves, and that some word or look of our own brings

a part of their past vividly before them. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, but

he looked out of the carriage window, away from Virginia. And presently,

as they splashed through the mud near the Arsenal, they met a knot of

gentlemen in state uniforms on their way to the city. Nicodemus stopped

at his master's signal. Here was George Catherwood, and his father was

with him.

"They have released us on parole," said George. "Yes, we had a fearful

night of it. They could not have kept us--they had no quarters."

How changed he was from the gay trooper of yesterday! His bright uniform

was creased and soiled and muddy, his face unshaven, and dark rings of

weariness under his eyes.

"Do you know if Clarence Colfax has gone home?" Mr. Brinsmade inquired.

"Clarence is an idiot," cried George, ill-naturedly. Mr. Brinsmade, of

all the prisoners here, he refused to take the parole, or the oath of

allegiance. He swears he will remain a prisoner until he is exchanged."

"The young man is Quixotic," declared the elder Catherwood, who was not

himself in the best of humors.

"Sir," said Mr. Brinsmade, with as much severity as he was ever known to

use, "sir, I honor that young man for this more than I can tell you.

Nicodemus, you may drive on." And he slammed the door.

Perhaps George had caught sight of a face in the depths of the carriage,

for he turned purple, and stood staring on the pavement after his

choleric parent had gone on.

It was done. Of all the thousand and more young men who had upheld the

honor of their state that week, there was but the one who chose to remain

in durance vile within the Arsenal wall--Captain Clarence Colfax, late of

the Dragoons.

Mr. Brinsmade was rapidly admitted to the Arsenal, and treated with the

respect which his long service to the city deserved. He and Virginia were

shown into the bare military room of the commanding officer, and thither

presently came Captain Lyon himself. Virginia tingled with antagonism

when she saw this man who had made the city tremble, who had set an iron

heel on the flaming brand of her Cause. He, too, showed the marks of his

Herculean labors, but only on his clothes and person. His long red hair

was unbrushed, his boots covered with black mud, and his coat unbuttoned.

His face was ruddy, and his eye as clear as though he had arisen from

twelve hours' sleep. He bowed to Virginia (not too politely, to be sure).

Her own nod of are recognition did not seem to trouble him.

"Yes, sir," he said incisively, in response to Mr. Brinsmade's question,

"we are forced to retain Captain Colfax. He prefers to remain a prisoner

until he is exchanged. He refuses to take the oath of allegiance to the

United States.

"And why should he be made to, Captain Lyon? In what way has he opposed

the United States troops?"

It was Virginia who spoke. Both looked at her in astonishment.

"You will pardon me, Miss Carvel," said Captain Lyon, gravely, "if I

refuse to discuss that question with you." Virginia bit her tongue.

"I understand that Mr. Colfax is a near relative of yours, Miss Carvel,"

the Captain continued. "His friends may come here to see him during the

day. And I believe it is not out of place for me to express my admiration

of the captain's conduct. You may care to see him now--"

"Thank you," said Virginia, curtly.

"Orderly, my respects to Captain Colfax, and ask him if a he will be kind

enough to come in here. Mr. Brinsmade," said the Captain, "I should like

a few words with you, sir." And so, thanks to the Captain's delicacy,

when Clarence arrived he found Virginia alone. She was much agitated She

ran toward him as he entered the door, calling his name.

"Max, you are going to stay here?"

"Yes, until I am exchanged."

Aglow with admiration, she threw herself into his arms. Now, indeed, was

she proud of him. Of all the thousand defenders of the state, he alone

was true to his principles--to the South. Within sight of home, he alone

had chosen privation.

She looked up into his face, which showed marks of excitement and

fatigue. But above all, excitement. She knew that he could live on

excitement. The thought came to her--was it that which sustained him now?

She put it away as treason. Surely the touch of this experience would

transform the boy into the man. This was the weak point in the armor

which she wore so bravely for her cousin.

He had grown up to idleness. He had known neither care nor

responsibility. His one longing from a child had been that love of

fighting and adventure which is born in the race. Until this gloomy day

in the Arsenal, Virginia had never characterized it as a love of

excitement---as any thing which contained a selfish element. She looked

up into his face, I say, and saw that which it is given to a woman only

to see. His eyes burned with a light that was far away. Even with his

arms around her he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and that she

had come all the way to the Arsenal to see him. Her hands dropped limply

from his shoulders She drew away, as he did not seem to notice.

So it is with men. Above and beyond the sacrifice of a woman's life, the

joy of possessing her soul and affection, is something more desirable

still--fame and glory--personal fame and glory, The woman may share them,

of course, and be content with the radiance. When the Governor in making

his inauguration speech, does he always think of the help the little wife

has given him. And so, in moments of excitement, when we see far ahead

into a glorious future, we do not feel the arms about us, or value the

sweets which, in more humdrum days, we labored so hard to attain.

Virginia drew away, and the one searching glance she gave him he did not

see. He was staring far beyond; tears started in her eyes, and she turned

from him to look out over the Arsenal grounds, still wet and heavy with

the night's storm. The day itself was dark and damp. She thought of the

supper cooking at home. It would not be eaten now.

And yet, in that moment of bitterness Virginia loved him. Such are the

ways of women, even of the proudest, who love their country too. It was

but right that he should not think of her when the honor of the South was

at stake; and the anger that rose within her was against those nine

hundred and ninety-nine who had weakly accepted the parole.

"Why did Uncle Comyn not come?" asked Clarence.

"He has gone to Jefferson City, to see the Governor.."

"And you came alone?"

"No, Mr. Brinsmade brought me."

"And mother?"

She was waiting for that question. What a relief that should have come

among the first.

"Aunt Lillian feels very badly. She was in her room when I left. She was

afraid," (Virginia had to smile), "she was afraid the Yankees would kill

you."

"They have behaved very well for Yankees," replied he, "No luxury, and

they will not hear of my having a servant. They are used to doing their

own work. But they have treated me much better since I refused to take

their abominable oath."

"And you will be honored for it when the news reaches town."

"Do you think so, Jinny?" Clarence asked eagerly, "I reckon they will

think me a fool!"

"I should like to hear any one say so," she flashed out.

"No," said Virginia, "our friends will force them to release you. I do

not know much about law. But you have done nothing to be imprisoned for."

Clarence did not answer at once. Finally he said. "I do not want to be

released."

"You do not want to be released," she repeated.

"No," he said. "They can exchange me. If I remain a prisoner, it will

have a greater effect--for the South."

She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics. Experience,

responsibility, and he would get over that. She remembered once, long

ago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, and he

had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days.

It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr.

Brinsmade. Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they even

thought of hunger. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the corner

of the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts. Drawing near

the city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them. A shot

rang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses.

As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade. Virginia

leaned out of the window. Down the vista of the street was a mass of blue

uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns of the old

Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into the

carriage.

The shots ceased, giving place to an angry roar that struck terror to her

heart that wet and lowering afternoon. The powerful black horses galloped

on. Nicodemus tugging at the reins, and great splotches of mud flying in

at the windows. The roar of the crowd died to an ominous moaning behind

them. Then she knew that Mr. Brinsmade was speaking:-- "From battle and

murder, and from sudden death--from all sedition, privy conspiracy, and

rebellion,--Good Lord, deliver us."

He was repeating the Litany--that Litany which had come down through the

ages. They had chanted it in Cromwell's time, when homes were ruined and

laid waste, and innocents slaughtered. They had chanted it on the dark,

barricaded stairways of mediaeval Paris, through St. Bartholomew's night,

when the narrow and twisted streets, ran with blood. They had chanted it

in ancient India, and now it was heard again in the New World and the New

Republic of Peace and Good Will.

Rebellion? The girl flinched at the word which the good gentleman had

uttered in his prayers. Was she a traitor to that flag for which her

people had fought in three wars? Rebellion! She burned to blot it forever

from the book Oh, the bitterness of that day, which was prophecy of the

bitterness to come.

Rain was dropping as Mr. Brinsmade escorted her up her own steps. He held

her hand a little at parting, and bade her be of good cheer. Perhaps he

guessed something of the trial she was to go through that night alone

with her aunt, Clarence's mother. Mr. Brinsmade did not go directly home.

He went first to the little house next door to his. Mrs. Brice and Judge

Whipple were in the parlor: What passed between them there has not been

told, but presently the Judge and Mr. Brinsmade came out together and

stood along time in, the yard, conversing, heedless of the rain.

CHAPTER XXI

THE STAMPEDE

Sunday dawned, and the people flocked to the churches. But even in the

house of God were dissension and strife. From the Carvel pew at Dr.

Posthelwaite's Virginia saw men and women rise from their knees and walk

out--their faces pale with anger. At St. Mark's the prayer for the

President of the United States was omitted. Mr. Russell and Mr.

Catherwood nodded approvingly over the sermon in which the South was

justified, and the sanction of Holy Writ laid upon her Institution. With

not indifferent elation these gentlemen watched the departure of brethren

with whom they had labored for many years, save only when Mr. Brinsmade

walked down the aisle never to return. So it is that war, like a

devastating flood, creeps insistent into the most sacred places, and will

not be denied. Mr. Davitt, at least, preached that day to an united

congregation,--which is to say that none of them went out. Mr. Hopper,

who now shared a pew with Miss Crane, listened as usual with a most

reverent attention. The clouds were low and the streets wet as people

walked home to dinner, to discuss, many in passion and some in sorrow,

the doings of the morning. A certain clergyman had prayed to be delivered

from the Irish, the Dutch, and the Devil. Was it he who started the old

rumor which made such havoc that afternoon? Those barbarians of the

foreign city to the south, drunk with power, were to sack and loot the

city. How it flew across street and alley, from yard to yard, and from

house to house! Privileged Ned ran into the dining-room where Virginia

and her aunt were sitting, his eyes rolling and his face ashen with

terror, crying out that the Dutch were marching on the city, firebrands

in hand and murder in their hearts.

"De Gen'ral done gib out er procl'mation, Miss Jinny," he cried. "De

Gen'ral done say in dat procl'mation dat he ain't got no control ober de

Dutch soldiers."

Mrs. Colfax fainted.

"Oh Miss Jinny, ain't you gwineter Glencoe? Ain't you gwineter flee away?

Every fambly on dis here street's gwine away--is packin' up fo' de

country. Doan't you hear 'em, Miss Jinny? What'll your pa say to Ned of

he ain't make you clear out! Doan't you hear de carridges a-rattlin' off

to de country?"

Virginia rose in agitation, yet trying to be calm, and to remember that

the safety of the household depended upon her alone. That was her

thought,--bred into her by generations,--the safety of the household, of

the humblest slave whose happiness and welfare depended upon her father's

bounty. How she longed in that instant for her father or Captain Lige,

for some man's strength, to depend upon. Would there be wisdom in flight?

"Do you want to go, Ned?" she asked. She has seen her aunt swoon before,

and her maid Susan knows well what to do. "Do you want to go, Ned?"

"Laws Mussy, no, Miss Jinny. One nigger laik me doan't make no

difference. My Marsa he say: 'Whaffor you leave ma house to be ramsacked

by de Dutch?'

"What I gwineter answer? Oh Miss Jinny, you an' Miss Lill an' Mammy

Easter an' Susan's gwine with Jackson, an' de othah niggahs can walk.

Ephum an' me'll jes' put up de shutters an' load de Colonel's gun."

By this time the room was filled with excited negroes, some crying, and

some laughing hysterically. Uncle Ben had come in from the kitchen;

Jackson was there, and the women were a wailing bunch in the corner by

the sideboard. Old Ephum, impassive, and Ned stood together. Virginia's

eye rested upon them, and the light of love and affection was in it. She

went to the window. Yes, carriages were indeed rattling outside, though a

sharp shower was falling. Across the street Alphonse, M. Renault's

butler, was depositing bags and bundles on the steps. M. Renault himself

bustled out into the rain, gesticulating excitedly. Spying her at the

window, he put his hands to his mouth, cried out something, and ran in

again. Virginia flung open the sash and listened for the dreaded sound of

drums. Then she crossed quickly over to where her aunt was lying on the

lounge.

"O Jinny," murmured that lady, who had revived, "can't you do something?

Haven't you done anything? They will be here any moment to burn us, to

murder us--to--oh, my poor boy! Why isn't he here to protect his mother!

Why was Comyn so senseless, so thoughtless, as to leave us at such a

time!"

"I don't think there is any need to be frightened," said Virginia, with a

calmness that made her aunt tremble with anger. "It is probably only a

rumor. Ned, run to Mr. Brinsmade's and ask him about it."

However loath to go, Ned departed at once. All honor to those old-time

negroes who are now memories, whose devotion to their masters was next to

their love of God. A great fear was in Ned's heart, but he went. And he

believed devoutly that he would never see his young mistress any more.

And while Ned is running to Mr. Brinsmade's, Mrs. Colfax is summoning

that courage which comes to persons of her character at such times. She

gathers her jewels into a bag, and her fine dresses into her trunk, with

trembling hands, although she is well enough now. The picture of Clarence

in the diamond frame she puts inside the waist of her gown. No, she will

not go to Bellegarde. That is too near the city. With frantic haste she

closes the trunk, which Ephum and Jackson carry downstairs and place

between the seats of the carriage. Ned had had the horses in it since

church time. It is not safe outside. But where to go?

To Glencoe? It is three in the afternoon, and Jackson explains that, with

the load, they would not reach there until midnight, if at all. To

Kirkwood or Webster? Yes; many of the first families live there, and

would take them in for the night. Equipages of all sorts are passing,

--private carriages and public, and corner-stand hacks. The black drivers

are cracking whips over galloping horses.

Pedestrians are hurrying by with bundles under their arms, some running

east, and some west, and some stopping to discuss excitedly the chances

of each direction. From the river comes the hoarse whistle of the boats

breaking the Sabbath stillness there. It is a panic to be remembered.

Virginia leaned against the iron railing of the steps, watching the

scene, and waiting for Ned to return from Mr. Brinsmade's. Her face was

troubled, as well it might be. The most alarming reports were cried up to

her from the street, and she looked every moment for the black smoke of

destruction to appear to the southward. Around her were gathered the

Carvel servants, most of them crying, and imploring her not to leave

them. And when Mrs. Colfax's trunk was brought down and placed in the

carriage where three of them might have ridden to safety, a groan of

despair and entreaty rose from the faithful group that went to her heart.

"Miss Jinny, you ain't gwineter leave yo' ol mammy?"

"Hush, Mammy," she said. "No, you shall all go, if I have to stay myself.

Ephum, go to the livery stable and get another carriage."

She went up into her own deserted room to gather the few things she would

take with her--the little jewellery case with the necklace of pearls

which her great-grandmother had worn at her wedding. Rosetta and Mammy

Easter were of no use, and she had sent them downstairs again. With a

flutter she opened her wardrobe door, to take one last look at the gowns

there. You will pardon her. They were part of happier days gone by. She

fell down on her knees and opened the great drawer at the bottom, and

there on the top lay the dainty gown which had belonged to Dorothy

Manners. A tear fell upon one of the flowers of the stays. Irresistibly

pressed into her mind the memory of Anne's fancy dress ball,--of the

episode by the gate, upon which she had thought so often with burning

face.

The voices below grow louder, but she does not hear. She is folding the

gown hurriedly into a little package. It was her great-grandmother's; her

chief heirloom after the pearls. Silk and satin from Paris are left

behind. With one glance at the bed in which she had slept since

childhood, and at the picture over it which had been her mother's, she

hurries downstairs. And Dorothy Manners's gown is under her arm. On the

landing she stops to brush her eyes with her handkerchief. If only her

father were here!

Ah, here is Ned back again. Has Mr. Brinsmade come?

What did he say? Ned simply pointed out a young man standing on the steps

behind the negroes. Crimson stains were on Virginia's cheeks, and the

package she carried under her arm was like lead. The young man, although

he showed no signs of excitement, reddened too as he came forward and

took off his hat. But the sight of him had acurious effect upon Virginia,

of which she was at first unconscious. A sense of security came upon her

as she looked at his face and listened to his voice.

"Mr. Brinsmade has gone to the hospital, Miss Carvel," he said. "Mrs.

Brinsmade asked me to come here with your man in the hope that I might

persuade you to stay where you are."

"Then the Germans are not moving on the city?" she said.

In spite of himself, Stephen smiled. It was that smile that angered her,

that made her rebel against the advice he had to offer; that made her

forget the insult he had risked at her hands by coming there. For she

believed him utterly, without reservation. The moment he had spoken she

was convinced that the panic was a silly scare which would be food for

merriment in future years. And yet--was not that smile in derision of

herself--of her friends who were running away? Was it not an assumption

of Northern superiority, to be resented?

"It is only a malicious rumor, Miss Carvel," he answered. "You have been

told so upon good authority, I suppose," she said dryly. And at the

change in her tone she saw his face fall.

"I have not," he replied honestly, "but I will submit it to your own

judgment. Yesterday General Harney superseded Captain Lyon in command in

St. Louis. Some citizens of prominence begged the General to send the

troops away, to avoid further ill-feeling and perhaps--bloodshed." (They

both winced at the word.) "Colonel Blair represented to the General that

the troops could not be sent away, as they had been enlisted to serve

only in St. Louis; whereupon the General in his proclamation states that

he has no control over these Home Guards. That sentence has been twisted

by some rascal into a confession that the Home Guards are not to be

controlled. I can assure you, Miss Carvel," added Stephen, speaking with

a force which made her start and thrill, "I can assure you from a

personal knowledge of the German troops that they are not a riotous lot,

and that they are under perfect control. If they were not, there are

enough regulars in the city to repress them."

He paused. And she was silent, forgetful of the hub-bub around her. It

was then that her aunt called out to her, with distressing shrillness,

from the carriage:-- "Jinny, Jinny, how can you stand there talking to

young men when our lives are in danger?"

She glanced hurriedly at Stephen, who said gently; "I do not wish to

delay you, Miss Carvel, if you are bent upon going."

She wavered. His tone was not resentful, simply quiet. Ephum turned the

corner of the street, the perspiration running on his black face.

"Miss Jinny, dey ain't no carridges to be had in this town. No'm, not for

fifty dollars."

This was the occasion for another groan from the negroes, and they began

once more to beseech her not to leave them. In the midst of their cries

she heard her aunt calling from the carriage, where, beside the trunk,

there was just room for her to squeeze in.

"Jinny," cried that lady, frantically, "are you to go or stay? The

Hessians will be here at any moment. Oh, I cannot stay here to be

murdered!"

Unconsciously the girl glanced again at Stephen. He had not gone, but was

still standing in the rain on the steps, the one figure of strength and

coolness she had seen this afternoon. Distracted, she blamed the fate

which had made this man an enemy. How willingly would she have leaned

upon such as he, and submitted to his guidance. Unluckily at that moment

came down the street a group which had been ludicrous on any other day,

and was, in truth, ludicrous to Stephen then. At the head of it was a

little gentleman with red mutton-chop whiskers, hatless, in spite of the

rain beginning to fall. His face was the very caricature of terror. His

clothes, usually neat, were awry, and his arms were full of various

things, not the least conspicuous of which was a magnificent bronze

clock. It was this object that caught Virginia's eye. But years passed

before she laughed over it. Behind Mr. Cluyme (for it was he) trotted his

family. Mrs. Cluyme, in a pink wrapper, carried an armful of the family

silver; then came Belle with certain articles of feminine apparel which

need not be enumerated, and the three small Cluymes of various ages

brought up the rear.

Mr. Cluyme, at the top of his speed, was come opposite to the carriage

when the lady occupant got out of it. Clutching at his sleeve, she

demanded where he was going. The bronze clock had a narrow escape.

"To the river," he gasped. "To the river, madame!" His wife coming after

him had a narrower escape still. Mrs. Colfax retained a handful of lace

from the wrapper, the owner of which emitted a shriek of fright.

"Virginia, I am going to the river," said Mrs. Colfax. "You may go where

you choose. I shall send the carriage back for you. Ned, to the levee!"

Ned did not lift a rein.

"What, you black rascal! You won't obey me?"

Ned swung on his seat. "No, indeedy, Miss Lilly, I ain't a-gwine 'thout

young Miss. The Dutch kin cotch me an' hang me, but I ain't a-gwine

'thout Miss Jinny."

Mrs. Colfax drew her shawl about her shoulders with dignity.

"Very well, Virginia," she said. "Ill as I am, I shall walk. Bear witness

that I have spent a precious hour trying to save you. If I live to see

your father again, I shall tell him that you preferred to stay here and

carry on disgracefully with a Yankee, that you let your own aunt risk her

life alone in the rain. Come, Susan!"

Virginia was very pale. She did not run down the steps, but she caught

her aunt by the arm ere that lady had taken six paces. The girl's face

frightened Mrs. Colfax into submission, and she let herself be led back

into the carriage beside the trunk. Those words of Mrs. Colfax's stung

Stephen to righteous anger and resentment--for Virginia.

As to himself, he had looked for insult. He turned to go that he might

not look upon her confusion; and hanging on the resolution, swung on his

heel again, his eyes blazeing. He saw in hers the deep blue light of the

skies after an evening's storm. She was calm, and save for a little

quiver of the voice, mistress of herself as she spoke to the group of

cowering servants.

"Mammy," she said, "get up on the box with Ned. And, Ned, walk the horses

to the levee, so that the rest may follow. Ephum, you stay here with the

house, and I will send Ned back to keep you company."

With these words, clasping tightly the precious little bundle under her

arm, she stepped into the carriage. Heedless of the risk he ran, sheer

admiration sent Stephen to the carriage door.

"If I can be of any service, Miss Carvel," he said, "I shall be happy."

She glanced at him wildly.

"No," she cried, "no. Drive on, Ned!"

And as the horses slipped and started she slammed the door in his face.

Down on the levee wheels rattled over the white stones washed clean by

the driving rain. The drops pelted the chocolate water into froth, and a

blue veil hid the distant bluffs beyond the Illinois bottom-lands. Down

on the Levee rich and poor battled for places on the landing-stages, and

would have thrown themselves into the flood had there been no boats to

save them from the dreaded Dutch. Attila and his Huns were not more

feared. Oh, the mystery of that foreign city! What might not its

Barbarians do when roused? The rich and poor struggled together; but

money was a power that day, and many were pitilessly turned off because

they did not have the high price to carry them--who knew where?

Boats which screamed, and boats which had a dragon's roar were backing

out of the close ranks where they had stood wheel-house to wheel-house,

and were dodging and bumping in the channel. See, their guards are black

with people! Mrs. Colfax, when they are come out of the narrow street

into the great open space, remarks this with alarm. All the boats will be

gone before they can get near one. But Virginia does not answer. She is

thinking of other things than the steamboats, and wondering whether it

had not been preferable to be killed by Hessians.

Ned spies the 'Barbara Lane'. He knows that her captain, Mr. Vance, is a

friend of the family. What a mighty contempt did Ned and his kind have

for foot passengers! Laying about him with his whip, and shouting at the

top of his voice to make himself heard, he sent the Colonel's Kentucky

bays through the crowd down to the Barbara's landing stage, the people

scampering to the right and left, and the Carvel servants, headed by

Uncle Ben, hanging on to the carriage springs, trailing behind.

Here was a triumph for Ned, indeed! He will tell you to this day how Mr.

Catherwood's carriage was pocketed by drays and bales, and how Mrs.

James's horses were seized by the bridles and turned back. Ned had a head

on his shoulders, and eyes in his head. He spied Captain Vance himself on

the stage, and bade Uncle Ben hold to the horses while he shouldered his

way to that gentleman. The result was that the Captain came bowing to the

carriage door, and offered his own cabin to the ladies. But the niggers

---he would take no niggers except a maid for each; and he begged Mrs.

Colfax's pardon--he could not carry her trunk.

So Virginia chose Mammy Easter, whose red and yellow turban was awry from

fear lest she be left behind and Ned was instructed to drive the rest

with all haste to Bellegarde. Captain Vance gave Mrs. Colfax his arm, and

Virginia his eyes. He escorted the ladies to quarters in the texas, and

presently was heard swearing prodigiously as the boat was cast off. It

was said of him that he could turn an oath better than any man on the

river, which was no mean reputation.

Mrs. Colfax was assisted to bed by Susan. Virginia stood by the little

window of the cabin, and as the Barbara paddled and floated down the

river she looked anxiously for signals of a conflagration. Nay, in that

hour she wished that the city might burn. So it is that the best of us

may at times desire misery to thousands that our own malice may be fed.

Virginia longed to see the yellow flame creep along the wet, gray clouds.

Passionate tears came to her eyes at the thought of the humiliation she

had suffered,--and before him, of all men. Could she ever live with her

aunt after what she had said? "Carrying on with that Yankee!" The

horrible injustice of it!

Her anger, too, was still against Stephen. Once more he had been sent by

circumstances to mock her and her people. If the city would only burn,

that his cocksure judgment might for once be mistaken, his calmness for

once broken!

The rain ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun turned the muddy river to

gold. The bluffs shone May-green in the western flood of light, and a

haze hung over the bottom-lands. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of the

city receding to the northward, and the rain had washed the pall of smoke

from over it. On the boat excited voices died down to natural tones; men

smoked on the guards and promenaded on the hurricane deck, as if this

were some pleasant excursion. Women waved to the other boats flocking

after. Laughter was heard, and joking. Mrs. Colfax stirred in her berth

and began to talk.

"Virginia, where are we going?" Virginia did not move

"Jinny!"

She turned. In that hour she remembered that great good-natured man, her

mother's brother, and for his sake Colonel Carvel had put up with much

from his wife's sister in-law. She could pass over, but never forgive

what her aunt had said to her that afternoon. Mrs. Colfax had often been

cruel before, and inconsiderate. But as the girl thought of the speech,

staring out on the waters, it suddenly occurred to her that no lady would

have uttered it. In all her life she had never realized till now that her

aunt was not a lady. From that time forth Virginia's attitude toward her

aunt was changed.

She controlled herself, however, and answered something, and went out

listlessly to find the Captain and inquire the destination of the boat.

Not that this mattered much to her. At the foot of the companionway

leading to the saloon deck she saw, of all people, Mr. Eliphalet Hopper

leaning on the rail, and pensively expectorating on the roof of the

wheel-house. In another mood Virginia would have laughed, for at sight of

her he straightened convulsively, thrust his quid into his cheek, and

removed his hat with more zeal than the grudging deference he usually

accorded to the sex. Clearly Eliphalet would not have chosen the

situation.

"I cal'late we didn't get out any too soon, Miss Carvel," he remarked,

with a sad attempt at jocoseness. "There won't be a great deal in that

town when the Dutch get through with it."

"I think that there are enough men left in it to save it," said Virginia.

Apparently Mr. Hopper found no suitable answer to this, for he made none.

He continued to glance at her uneasily. There was an impudent tribute in

his look which she resented strongly.

"Where is the Captain?" she demanded.

"He's down below--ma'am," he replied. "Can--can I do anything?"

"Yes," she said, with abrupt maliciousness, "you may tell me where you

are going."

"I cal'late, up the Cumberland River. That's where she's bound for, if

she don't stop before she gets there Guess there ain't many of 'em

inquired where she was goin', or cared much," he added, with a ghastly

effort to be genial.

"Do you care?" she demanded, curiously. Eliphalet grinned.

"Not a great deal," he said. Then he felt called upon to defend himself.

"I didn't see any use in gettin' murdered, when I couldn't do anything."

She left him. He stared after her up the companionway, bit off a generous

piece of tobacco, and ruminated. If to be a genius is to possess an

infinite stock of patience, Mr. Hopper was a genius. There was patience

in his smile. But it was not a pleasant smile to look upon.

Virginia did not see it. She had told her aunt the news, and stood in the

breeze on the hurricane deck looking southward, with her hand shading her

eyes. The 'Barbara Lane' happened to be a boat with a record, and her

name was often in the papers. She had already caught up with and

distanced others which had had half an hour's start of her, and was near

the head of the procession.

Virginia presently became aware that people were gathering around her in

knots, gazing at a boat coming toward them. Others had been met which, on

learning the dread news, turned back. But this one kept her bow steadily

up the current, although she had passed within a biscuit-toss of the

leader of the line of refugees. It was then that Captain Vance's hairy

head appeared above the deck.

"Dang me!" he said, "if here ain't pig-headed Brent, steaming the

'Jewanita' straight to destruction."

"Oh, are you sure it's Captain Brent?" cried Virginia. The Captain looked

around in surprise.

"If that there was Shreve's old Enterprise come to life again, I'd lay

cotton to sawdust that Brent had her. Danged if he wouldn't take her

right into the jaws of the Dutch."

The Captain's words spread, and caused considerable excitement. On board

the Barbara Lane were many gentlemen who had begun to be shamefaced over

their panic, and these went in a body to the Captain and asked him to

communicate with the 'Juanita'. Whereupon a certain number of whistles

were sounded, and the Barbara's bows headed for the other side of the

channel.

As the Juanita drew near, Virginia saw the square figure and clean,

smooth-shaven face of Captain Lige standing in front of his wheel-house

Peace crept back into her soul, and she tingled with joy as the bells

clanged and the bucket-planks churned, and the great New Orleans packet

crept slowly to the Barbara's side.

"You ain't goin' in, Brent?" shouted the Barbara's captain.

"Why not?" responded Mr. Brent. At the sound of his voice Virginia could

have wept.

"The Dutch are sacking the city," said Vance. "Didn't they tell you?"

"The Dutch--hell!" said Mr, Brent, calmly. "Who's afraid of the Dutch?"

A general titter went along the guards, and Virginia blushed. Why could

not the Captain see her?

"I'm on my reg'lar trip, of course," said Vance. Out there on the sunlit

river the situation seemed to call for an apology.

"Seems to be a little more loaded than common," remarked Captain Lige,

dryly, at which there was another general laugh.

"If you're really goin' up," said Captain Vance, I reckon there's a few

here would like to be massacred, if you'll take 'em."

"Certainly," answered Mr. Brent; "I'm bound for the barbecue." And he

gave a command.

While the two great boats were manoeuvring, and slashing with one wheel

and the other, the gongs sounding, Virginia ran into the cabin.

"Oh, Aunt Lillian," she exclaimed, "here is Captain Lige and the Juanita,

and he is going to take us back with him. He says there is no danger."

It its unnecessary here to repeat the moral persuasion which Virginia

used to get her aunt up and dressed. That lady, when she had heard the

whistle and the gongs, had let her imagination loose. Turning her face to

the wall, she was in the act of repeating her prayers as her niece

entered.

A big stevedore carried her down two decks to where the gang-plank was

thrown across. Captain Lige himself was at the other end. His face

lighted, Pushing the people aside, he rushed across, snatched the lady

from the negro's arms, crying:

"Jinny! Jinny Carvel! Well, if this ain't fortunate." The stevedore's

services were required for Mammy Easter. And behind the burly shield thus

formed, a stoutish gentleman slipped over, all unnoticed, with a

carpet-bag in his hand It bore the initials E. H.

The plank was drawn in. The great wheels began to turn and hiss, the

Barbara's passengers waved good-by to the foolhardy lunatics who had

elected to go back into the jaws of destruction. Mrs. Colfax was put into

a cabin; and Virginia, in a glow, climbed with Captain Lige to the

hurricane deck. There they stood for a while in silence, watching the

broad stern of the Barbara growing smaller. "Just to think," Miss Carvel

remarked, with a little hysterical sigh, "just to think that some of

those people brought bronze clocks instead of tooth-brushes."

"And what did you bring, my girl?" asked the Captain, glancing at the

parcel she held so tightly under her arm.

He never knew why she blushed so furiously.

CHAPTER XXII

THE STRAINING OF ANOTHER FRIENDSHIP

Captain Lige asked but two questions: where was the Colonel, and was it

true that Clarence had refused to be paroled? Though not possessing

over-fine susceptibilities, the Captain knew a mud-drum from a lady's

watch, as he himself said. In his solicitude for Virginia, he saw that

she was in no state of mind to talk of the occurrences of the last few

days. So he helped her to climb the little stair that winds to the top of

the texas,--that sanctified roof where the pilot-house squats. The girl

clung to her bonnet Will you like her any the less when you know that it

was a shovel bonnet, with long red ribbons that tied under her chin? It

became her wonderfully. "Captain Lige," she said, almost tearfully, as

she took his arm, "how I thank heaven that you came up the river this

afternoon!"

"Jinny," said the Captain, "did you ever know why cabins are called

staterooms?"

"Why, no," answered she, puzzled.

"There was an old fellow named Shreve who ran steamboats before Jackson

fought the redcoats at New Orleans. In Shreve's time the cabins were

curtained off, just like these new-fangled sleeping-car berths. The old

man built wooden rooms, and he named them after the different states,

Kentuck, and Illinois, and Pennsylvania. So that when a fellow came

aboard he'd say: 'What state am I in, Cap?' And from this river has the

name spread all over the world--stateroom. That's mighty interesting,"

said Captain Lige.

"Yea," said Virginia; "why didn't you tell me long ago."

"And I'll bet you can't say," the Captain continued, "why this house

we're standing on is called the texas."

"Because it is annexed to the states," she replied, quick a flash.

"Well, you're bright," said he. "Old Tufts got that notion, when Texas

came in. Like to see Bill Jenks?"

"Of course," said Virginia.

Bill Jenks was Captain Brent's senior pilot. His skin hung on his face in

folds, like that of a rhinoceros It was very much the same color. His

grizzled hair was all lengths, like a worn-out mop; his hand reminded one

of an eagle's claw, and his teeth were a pine yellow. He greeted only

such people as he deemed worthy of notice, but he had held Virginia in

his arms.

"William," said the young lady, roguishly, "how is the eye, location, and

memory?"

William abandoned himself to a laugh. When this happened it was put in

the Juanita's log.

"So the Cap'n be still harpin' on that?" he said, "Miss Jinny, he's just

plumb crazy on a pilot's qualifications."

"He says that you are the best pilot on the river, but I don't believe

it," said Virginia.

William cackled again. He made a place for her on the leather-padded seat

at the back of the pilot house, where for a long time she sat staring at

the flag trembling on the jackstaff between the great sombre pipes. The

sun fell down, but his light lingered in the air above as the big boat

forged abreast the foreign city of South St. Louis. There was the

arsenal--grim despite its dress of green, where Clarence was confined

alone.

Captain Lige came in from his duties below. "Well, Jinny, we'll soon be

at home," he said. "We've made a quick trip against the rains."

"And--and do you think the city is safe?"

"Safe!" he cried. "As safe as London!" He checked himself. "Jinny, would

you like to blow the whistle?"

"I should just love to," said Virginia. And following Mr. Jenks's

directions she put her toe on the tread, and shrank back when the monster

responded with a snort and a roar. River men along the levee heard that

signal and laughed. The joke was certainly not on sturdy Elijah Brent.

An hour later, Virginia and her aunt and the Captain, followed by Mammy

aster and Rosetta and Susan, were walking through the streets of the

stillest city in the Union. All that they met was a provost's guard, for

St. Louis was under Martial Law. Once in a while they saw the light of

some contemptuous citizen of the residence district who had stayed to

laugh. Out in the suburbs, at the country houses of the first families,

people of distinction slept five and six in a room--many with only a

quilt between body and matting. Little wonder that these dreamed of

Hessians and destruction. In town they slept with their doors open, those

who remained and had faith. Martial law means passes and explanations,

and walking generally in the light of day. Martial law means that the

Commander-in-chief, if he be an artist in well doing, may use his boot

freely on politicians bland or beetle-browed. No police force ever gave

the sense of security inspired by a provost's guard.

Captain Lige sat on the steps of Colonel Carvel's house that night, long

after the ladies were gone to bed. The only sounds breaking the silence

of the city were the beat of the feet of the marching squads and the call

of the corporal's relief. But the Captain smoked in agony until the

clouds of two days slipped away from under the stars, for he was trying

to decide a Question. Then he went up to a room in the house which had

been known as his since the rafters were put down on that floor.

The next morning, as the Captain and Virginia sit at breakfast together

with only Mammy Easter to cook and Rosetta to wait on them, the Colonel

bursts in. He is dusty and travel-stained from his night on the train,

but his gray eyes light with affection as he sees his friend beside his

daughter.

"Jinny," he cries as he kisses her, "Jinny, I'm proud oil you, my girl!

You didn't let the Yankees frighten you--But where is Jackson?"

And so the whole miserable tale has to be told over again, between

laughter and tears on Virginia's part, and laughter and strong language

on Colonel Carvel's. What--blessing that Lige met them, else the Colonel

might now be starting for the Cumberland River in search of his daughter.

The Captain does not take much part in the conversation, and he refuses

the cigar which is offered him. Mr. Carvel draws back in surprise.

"Lige," he says, "this is the first time to my knowledge."

"I smoked too many last night," says the Captain. The Colonel sat down,

with his feet against the mantel, too full of affairs to take much notice

of Mr. Brent's apathy.

"The Yanks have taken the first trick--that's sure," he said. "But I

think we'll laugh last, Jinny. Jefferson City isn't precisely quiet. The

state has got more militia, or will have more militia in a day or two. We

won't miss the thousand they stole in Camp Jackson. They're organizing up

there. And I've got a few commissions right here," and he tapped his

pocket.

"Pa," said Virginia, "did you volunteer?"

The Colonel laughed.

"The Governor wouldn't have me," he answered. "He said I was more good

here in St. Louis. I'll go later. What's this I hear about Clarence?"

Virginia related the occurrences of Saturday. The Colonel listened with

many exclamations, slapping his knee from time to time as she proceeded.

"By gum!" he cried, when she had finished, "the boy has it in him, after

all! They can't hold him a day--can they, Lige?" (No answer from the

Captain, who is eating his breakfast in silence.) "All that we have to do

is to go for Worington and get a habeas corpus from the United States

District Court. Come on, Lige." The Captain got up excitedly, his face

purple.

"I reckon you'll have to excuse me, Colonel," he said. "There's a cargo

on my boat which has got to come off." And without more ado he left the

room. In consternation they heard the front door close behind him. And

yet, neither father nor daughter dared in that hour add to the trial of

the other by speaking out the dread that was in their hearts. The Colonel

smoked for a while, not a word escaping him, and then he patted

Virginia's cheek.

"I reckon I'll run over and see Russell, Jinny," he said, striving to be

cheerful. "We must get the boy out. I'll see a lawyer." He stopped

abruptly in the hall and pressed his hand to his forehead. "My God," he

whispered to himself, "if I could only go to Silas!"

The good Colonel got Mr. Russell, and they went to Mr. Worington, Mrs.

Colfax's lawyer, of whose politics it is not necessary to speak. There

was plenty of excitement around the Government building where his Honor

issued the writ. There lacked not gentlemen of influence who went with

Mr. Russell and Colonel Carvel and the lawyer and the Commissioner to the

Arsenal. They were admitted to the presence of the indomitable Lyon, who

informed them that Captain Colfax was a prisoner of war, and, since the

arsenal was Government property, not in the state. The Commissioner

thereupon attested the affidavit to Colonel Carvel, and thus the

application for the writ was made legal.

These things the Colonel reported to Virginia; and to Mrs. Colfax, who

received them with red eyes and a thousand queries as to whether that

Yankee ruffian would pay any attention to the Sovereign law which he

pretended to uphold; whether the Marshal would not be cast over the

Arsenal wall by the slack of his raiment when he went to serve the writ.

This was not the language, but the purport, of the lady's questions.

Colonel Carvel had made but a light breakfast: he had had no dinner, and

little rest on the train. But he answered his sister-in-law with

unfailing courtesy. He was too honest to express a hope which he did not

feel. He had returned that evening to a dreary household. During the day

the servants had straggled in from Bellegarde, and Virginia had had

prepared those dishes which her father loved. Mrs. Colfax chose to keep

her room, for which the two were silently thankful. Jackson announced

supper. The Colonel was humming a tune as he went down the stairs, but

Virginia was not deceived. He would not see the yearning in her eyes as

he took his chair; he would not glance at Captain Lige's empty seat. It

was because he did not dare. She caught her breath when she saw that the

food on his plate lay untouched.

"Pa, are you ill?" she faltered.

He pushed his chair away, such suffering in his look as she had never

seen.

"Jinny," he said, "I reckon Lige is for the Yankees."

"I have known it all along," she said, but faintly.

"Did he tell you?" her father demanded. "No."

"My God," cried the Colonel, in agony, "to think that he kept it from me

I to think that Lige kept it from me!"

"It is because he loves you, Pa," answered the girl, gently, "it is

because he loves us."

He said nothing to that. Virginia got up, and went softly around the

table. She leaned over his shoulder. "Pa!"

"Yes," he said, his voice lifeless.

But her courage was not to be lightly shaken. "Pa, will you forbid him to

come here--now?"

A long while she waited for his answer, while the big clock ticked out

the slow seconds in the hall, and her heart beat wildly.

"No," said the Colonel. "As long as I have a roof, Lige may come under

it."

He rose abruptly and seized his bat. She did not ask him where he was

going, but ordered Jackson to keep the supper warm, and went into the

drawing-room. The lights were out, then, but the great piano that was her

mother's lay open. Her fingers fell upon the keys. That wondrous hymn

which Judge Whipple loved, which for years has been the comfort of those

in distress, floated softly with the night air out of the open window. It

was "Lead, Kindly Light." Colonel Carvel heard it, and paused.

Shall we follow him?

He did not stop again until he reached the narrow street at the top of

the levee bank, where the quaint stone houses of the old French residents

were being loaded with wares. He took a few steps back-up the hill. Then

he wheeled about, walked swiftly down the levee, and on to the

landing-stage beside which the big 'Juanita' loomed in the night. On her

bows was set, fantastically, a yellow street-car.

The Colonel stopped mechanically. Its unexpected appearance there had

served to break the current of his meditations. He stood staring at it,

while the roustabouts passed and repassed, noisily carrying great logs of

wood on shoulders padded by their woollen caps.

"That'll be the first street-car used in the city of New Orleans, if it

ever gets there, Colonel."

The Colonel jumped. Captain Lige was standing beside him.

"Lige, is that you? We waited supper for you."

"Reckon I'll have to stay here and boss the cargo all night. Want to get

in as many trips as I can before--navigation closes," the Captain

concluded significantly.

Colonel Carvel shook his head. "You were never too busy to come for

supper, Lige. I reckon the cargo isn't all."

Captain Lige shot at him a swift look. He gulped.

"Come over here on the levee," said the Colonel, sternly. They walked out

together, and for some distance in silence.

"Lige," said the elder gentleman, striking his stick on the stones, "if

there ever was a straight goer, that's you. You've always dealt squarely

with me, and now I'm going to ask you a plain question. Are you North or

South?"

"I'm North, I reckon," answered the Captain, bluntly. The Colonel bowed

his head. It was a long time before he spoke again. The Captain waited

like a man who expects and deserve, the severest verdict. But there was

no anger in Mr. Carvel's voice--only reproach.

"And you wouldn't tell me, Lige? You kept it from me."

"My God, Colonel," exclaimed the other, passionately, "how could I? I owe

what I have to your charity. But for you and--and Jinny I should have

gone to the devil. If you and she are taken away, what have I left in

life? I was a coward, sir, not to tell you. You must have guessed it. And

yet,--God help me,--I can't stand by and see the nation go to pieces.

Your nation as well as mine, Colonel. Your fathers fought that we

Americans might inherit the earth--" He stopped abruptly. Then he

continued haltingly, "Colonel, I know you're a man of strong feelings and

convictions. All I ask is that you and Jinny will think of me as a

friend--"

He choked, and turned away, not heeding the direction of his feet. The

Colonel, his stick raised, stood looking after him. He was folded in the

near darkness before he called his name.

"Lige!"

"Yes, Colonel."

He came back, wondering, across the rough stones until he stood beside

the tall figure. Below them, the lights glided along the dark water.

"Lige, didn't I raise you? Haven't I taught you that my house was your

home? Come back, Lige. But--but never speak to me again of this night!

Jinny is waiting for us."

Not a word passed between them as they went up the quiet street. At the

sound of their feet in the entry the door was flung open, and Virginia,

with her hands out stretched, stood under the hall light.

"Oh, Pa, I knew you would bring him back," she said.

CHAPTER XXIII

OF CLARENCE

Captain Clarence Colfax, late of the State Dragoons, awoke on Sunday

morning the chief of the many topics of the conversation of a big city.

His conduct drew forth enthusiastic praise from the gentlemen and ladies

who had thronged Beauregard and Davis avenues, and honest admiration from

the party which had broken up the camp. The boy had behaved well. There

were many doting parents, like Mr. Catherwood, whose boys had accepted

the parole, whose praise was a trifle lukewarm, to be sure. But popular

opinion, when once aroused, will draw a grunt from the most grudging.

We are not permitted, alas, to go behind these stern walls and discover

how Captain Colfax passed that eventful Sunday of the Exodus. We know

that, in his loneliness, he hoped for a visit from his cousin, and took

to pacing his room in the afternoon, when a smarting sense of injustice

crept upon him. Clarence was young. And how was he to guess, as he looked

out in astonishment upon the frightened flock of white boats swimming

southward, that his mother and his sweetheart were there?

On Monday, while the Colonel and many prominent citizens were busying

themselves about procuring the legal writ which was at once to release

Mr. Colfax, and so cleanse the whole body of Camp Jackson's defenders

from any, veiled intentions toward the Government, many well known

carriages drew up before the Carvel House in Locust Street to

congratulate the widow and the Colonel upon the possession of such a son

and nephew. There were some who slyly congratulated Virginia, whose

martyrdom it was to sit up with people all the day long. For Mrs, Colfax

kept her room, and admitted only a few of her bosom friends to cry with

her. When the last of the callers was gone, Virginia was admitted to her

aunt's presence.

"Aunt Lillian, to-morrow morning Pa and I are going to the Arsenal with a

basket for Max. Pa seems to think there is a chance that he may come back

with us. You will go, of course."

The lady smiled wearily at the proposal, and raised her hands in protest,

the lace on the sleeves of her dressing gown falling away from her white

arms.

"Go, my dear?" she exclaimed, "when I can't walk to my bureau after that

terrible Sunday. You are crazy, Jinny. No," she added, with conviction,

"I never again expect to see him alive. Comyn says they may release him,

does he? Is he turning Yankee, too?"

The girl went away, not in anger or impatience, but in sadness. Brought

up to reverence her elders, she had ignored the shallowness of her aunt's

character in happier days. But now Mrs. Colfax's conduct carried a

prophecy with it. Virginia sat down on the landing to ponder on the years

to come,--on the pain they were likely to bring with them from this

source--Clarence gone to the war; her father gone (for she felt that he

would go in the end), Virginia foresaw the lonely days of trial in

company with this vain woman whom accident made her cousin's mother. Ay,

and more, fate had made her the mother of the man she was to marry. The

girl could scarcely bear the thought--through the hurry and swing of the

events of two days she had kept it from her mind.

But now Clarence was to be released. To-morrow he would be coming home to

her joyfully for his reward, and she did not love him. She was bound to

face that again and again. She had cheated herself again and again with

other feelings. She had set up intense love of country in the shrine

where it did not belong, and it had answered--for a while. She saw

Clarence in a hero's light--until a fatal intimate knowledge made her

shudder and draw back. And yet her resolution should not be water. She

would carry it through.

Captain Lige's cheery voice roused her from below--and her father's

laugh. And as she went down to them she thanked God that this friend had

been spared to him. Never had the Captain's river yarns been better told

than at the table that evening. Virginia did not see him glance at the

Colonel when at last he had brought a smile to her face.

"I'm going to leave Jinny with you, Lige," said Mr. Carvel, presently.

"Worington has some notion that the Marshal may go to the Arsenal

to-night with the writ. I mustn't neglect the boy."

Virginia stood in front of him. "Won't you let me go?" she pleaded

The Colonel was taken aback. He stood looking down at her, stroking his

goatee, and marvelling at the ways of woman.

"The horses have been out all day, Jinny," he said, "I am going in the

cars."

"I can go in the cars, too."

The Colonel looked at Captain Lige.

"There is only a chance that we shall see Clarence," he went on,

uneasily.

"It is better than sitting still," cried Virginia, as she ran away to get

the bonnet with the red strings.

"Lige,--" said the Colonel, as the two stood awaiting her in the hall, "I

can't make her out. Can you?"

The Captain did not answer.

It was a long journey, in a bumping car with had springs that rattled

unceasingly, past the string of provost guards. The Colonel sat in the

corner, with his head bent down over his stick At length, cramped and

weary, they got out, and made their way along the Arsenal wall, past the

sentries to the entrance. The sergeant brought his rifle to a "port".

"Commandant's orders, sir. No one admitted," he said.

"Is Captain Colfax here?" asked Mr. Carver

"Captain Colfax was taken to Illinois in a skiff, quarter of an hour

since."

Captain Lige gave vent to a long, low whistle.

"A skiff!" he exclaimed, "and the river this high! A skiff!"

Virginia clasped his arm in terror. "Is there danger?"

Before he could answer came the noise of steps from the direction of the

river, and a number of people hurried up excitedly. Colonel Carvel

recognized Mr. Worington, the lawyer, and caught him by the sleeve.

"Anything happened?" he demanded.

Worington glanced at the sentry, and pulled the Colonel past the entrance

and into the street. Virginia and Captain Lige followed.

"They have started across with him in a light skiff----four men and a

captain. The young fool! We had him rescued."

"Rescued!"

"Yes. There were but five in the guard. And a lot of us, who suspected

what they were up to, were standing around. When we saw 'em come down, we

made a rush and had the guard overpowered But Colfax called out to stand

back."

"Well, sir."

"Cuss me if I understand him," said Mr. Worington. "He told us to

disperse, and that he proposed to remain a prisoner and go where they

sent him."

There was a silence. Then-- "Move on please, gentlemen," said the sentry,

and they started to walk toward the car line, the lawyer and the Colonel

together. Virginia put her hand through the Captain's arm. In the

darkness he laid his big one over it.

"Don't you be frightened, Jinny, at what I said, I reckon they'll fetch

up in Illinois all right, if I know Lyon. There, there," said Captain

Lige, soothingly. Virginia was crying softly. She had endured more in the

past few days than often falls to the lot of one-and-twenty.

"There, there, Jinny." He felt like crying himself. He thought of the

many, many times he had taken her on his knee and kissed her tears. He

might do that no more, now. There was the young Captain, a prisoner on

the great black river, who had a better right, Elijah Brent wondered, as

they waited in the silent street for the lonely car, if Clarence loved

her as well as he.

It was vary late when they reached home, and Virginia went silently up to

her room. Colonel Carvel stared grimly after her, then glanced at his

friend as he turned down the lights. The eyes of the two met, as of old,

in true understanding.

The sun was still slanting over the tops of the houses the next morning

when Virginia, a ghostly figure, crept down the stairs and withdrew the

lock and bolt on the front door. The street was still, save for the

twittering of birds and the distant rumble of a cart in its early rounds.

The chill air of the morning made her shiver as she scanned the entry for

the newspaper. Dismayed, she turned to the clock in the hall. Its hands

were at quarter past five.

She sat long behind the curtains in her father's little library, the

thoughts whirling in her brain as she watched the growing life of another

day. What would it bring forth? Once she stole softly back to the entry,

self-indulgent and ashamed, to rehearse again the bitter and the sweet of

that scene of the Sunday before. She summoned up the image of the young

man who had stood on these steps in front of the frightened servants. She

seemed to feel again the calm power and earnestness of his face, to hear

again the clear-cut tones of his voice as he advised her. Then she drew

back, frightened, into the sombre library, conscience-stricken that she

should have yielded to this temptation then, when Clarence--She dared not

follow the thought, but she saw the light skiff at the mercy of the angry

river and the dark night.

This had haunted her. If he were spared, she prayed for strength to

consecrate herself to him A book lay on the table, and Virginia took

refuge in it. And her eyes glancing over the pages, rested on this

verse:--

"Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,

That beat to battle where he stands;

Thy face across his fancy comes,

And gives the battle to his hands."

The paper brought no news, nor mentioned the ruse to which Captain Lyon

had resorted to elude the writ by transporting his prisoner to Illinois.

Newspapers were not as alert then as now. Colonel Carvel was off early to

the Arsenal in search of tidings. He would not hear of Virginia's going

with him. Captain Lige, with a surer instinct, went to the river. What a

morning of suspense! Twice Virginia was summoned to her aunt, and twice

she made excuse. It was the Captain who returned first, and she met him

at the door.

"Oh, what have you heard?" she cried.

"He is alive," said the Captain, tremulously, "alive and well, and

escaped South."

She took a step toward him, and swayed. The Captain caught her. For a

brief instant he held her in his arms and then he led her to the great

armchair that was the Colonel's.

"Lige," she said,--are you sure that this is not--a kindness?"

"No, Jinny," he answered quickly, "but things were mighty close. I was

afraid last night. The river was roarin'. They struck out straight

across, but they drifted and drifted like log-wood. And then she began to

fill, and all five of 'em to bail. Then---then she went down. The five

soldiers came up on that bit of an island below the Arsenal. They hunted

all night, but they didn't find Clarence. And they got taken off to the

Arsenal this morning."

"And how do you know?" she faltered.

"I knew that much this morning," he continued, "and so did your pa. But

the Andrew Jackson is just in from Memphis, and the Captain tells me that

he spoke the Memphis packet off Cape Girardeau, and that Clarence was

aboard. She picked him up by a miracle, after he had just missed a round

trip through her wheel-house."

THE CRISIS

By Winston Churchill

BOOK III

Volume 6.

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCING A CAPITALIST

A cordon of blue regiments surrounded the city at first from Carondelet

to North St. Louis, like an open fan. The crowds liked best to go to

Compton Heights, where the tents of the German citizen-soldiers were

spread out like so many slices of white cake on the green beside the

city's reservoir. Thence the eye stretched across the town, catching the

dome of the Court House and the spire of St. John's. Away to the west, on

the line of the Pacific railroad that led halfway across the state, was

another camp. Then another, and another, on the circle of the fan, until

the river was reached to the northward, far above the bend. Within was a

peace that passed understanding,--the peace of martial law.