So soon as he was sufficiently recovered to write, Jack reported by letter to the regiment.  He had received no reply.  The explanation was awaiting him so soon as he reached Washington.  While seated with his mother in Willard’s, a heavy knock came on the door.  It was thrown open before the maid could reach it.  A provost corporal stood on the threshold, a file of men behind him: 

“I have an order for the arrest of Sergeant John Sprague.”

“I am John Sprague.  Of what am I accused?”

“I have no orders to tell you.  My orders are to deliver you at the provost prison.  You will hear the charges there.”

“But I am still under the doctor’s charge.  I am on the hospital list.”

“I don’t know what condition you are in.  My orders are to arrest you, and you know I have no option.  All can be remedied at the provost’s office.”

“I will go with you, my son,” Mrs. Sprague said, trying to look untroubled.  “It is some error which can be explained.”

“No, mamma, you can’t come.  Send word to the counsel you engaged in the search.  I fancy it is some mistake; but I wish it hadn’t occurred just now.  I wouldn’t write Olympia about it.”  Olympia had gone on to Acredale with Kate, to set the house in order for a season of festivity.  Jack, Vincent, Dick, and the rest, were to join them so soon as the invalid had taken rest in Washington.

The guard indulged Jack in a carriage to headquarters.  Here he was handed over to a lieutenant in charge, and conducted to a prison-like apartment in the rear.

“What is the charge against me?” Jack asked, as the officer touched a bell.

“I am not acquainted with the papers in your case.  My instructions are to hold you until called for.—­Sergeant,” he added, as a soldier in uniform entered, “the prisoner is to be confined in close quarters, and is not to be lost sight of night or day.”

The soldier saluted and motioned Jack to follow him, two other soldiers closing in behind him as he set out.  At the end of a short hallway the sergeant stopped, took a key from a bunch at his belt, unlocked a heavily-barred door and motioned Jack to enter.  It was useless to protest, useless to parley.  He knew military procedure too well to think of it, but his heart swelled with bitter rage.  This was the reward of an almost idolatrous patriotism—­this was the patrie’s way of cherishing her defenders.  He flung himself on the cot in a wild passion of tears and rebellious scorn.  But his humiliation was not yet ended; while he sat with his face covered by his bands, he felt hands upon his legs, and the sharp click of a lock.  He moved his left leg.  Great God! it was chained to an enormous iron bolt.  He started to rise; the sharp links of the chain cut his ankle as the great ball rolled away from him.  With a cry of madness he flung himself on the harsh pine pallet, groaning his heart out in bitter anguish and maledictions.  In time