“’Nough!  ’Nough!”

The end was come, and nobody knew it better than Mayhall Wells.  He rode home that night with hands folded on the pommel of his saddle and his beard crushed by his chin against his breast.  For the last time, next morning he rode down to Flitter Bill’s store.  On the way he met Parson Kilburn and for the last time Mayhall Wells straightened his shoulders and for one moment more resumed his part:  perhaps the parson had not heard of his fall.

“Good-mornin’, parsing,” he said, pleasantly.  “Ah—­where have you been?” The parson was returning from Cumberland Gap, whither he had gone to take the oath of allegiance.

“By the way, I have something here for you which Flitter Bill asked me to give you.  He said it was from the commandant at Cumberland Gap.”

“Fer me?” asked the captain—­hope springing anew in his heart.  The parson handed him a letter.  Mayhall looked at it upside down.

“If you please, parsing,” he said, handing it back, “I hev left my specs at home.”

The parson read that, whereas Captain Wells had been guilty of grave misdemeanors while in command of the Army of the Callahan, he should be arrested and court-martialled for the same, or be given the privilege of leaving the county in twenty-four hours.  Mayhall’s face paled a little and he stroked his beard.

“Ah—­does anybody but you know about this ordah, parsing?”

“Nobody.”

“Well, if you will do me the great favor, parsing, of not mentioning it to nary a living soul—­as fer me and my ole gray hoss and my household furniture—­we’ll be in Kanetuck afore daybreak to-morrow mornin’!” And he was.

But he rode on just then and presented himself for the last time at the store of Flitter Bill.  Bill was sitting on the stoop in his favorite posture.  And in a moment there stood before him plain Mayhall Wells—­holding out the order Bill had given the parson that day.

“Misto Richmond,” he said, “I have come to tell you good-by.”

Now just above the selfish layers of fat under Flitter Bill’s chubby hands was a very kind heart.  When he saw Mayhall’s old manner and heard the old respectful way of address, and felt the dazed helplessness of the big, beaten man, the heart thumped.

“I am sorry about that little amount I owe you; I think I’ll be able shortly—­” But Bill cut him short.  Mayhall Wells, beaten, disgraced, driven from home on charge of petty crimes, of which he was undoubtedly guilty, but for which Bill knew he himself was responsible—­Mayhall on his way into exile and still persuading himself and, at that moment, almost persuading him that he meant to pay that little debt of long ago—­was too much for Flitter Bill, and he proceeded to lie—­lying with deliberation and pleasure.