“Sergeant, there is one of our men lying in that pile.  Will you lift him up so I can see the face?”

This was the work of a moment only, and for an instant no one spoke.  Disfigured as the face was, blackened and bloody, there could be no mistake in identity—­it was that of Charles Le Gaire.

“Why—­why,” exclaimed Billie, thunderstruck.  “I know him, but I cannot remember.  Who is the man?”

It was all clear enough to me now; I only wondered at not suspecting the truth before.  After guiding us up the ravine he had not returned to camp, but remained, intent on revenge, feeling that this was an opportunity for vengeance which would insure his own safety.  Yet she did not know, did not understand, and it must all be explained to her.  Miles broke in impatiently.

“Ain’t it the same nigger, sir, what brought us up here?”

“Yes,” I said, but with my eyes on the girl’s face.  “Billie, listen, dear.  The man was Le Gaire’s servant, his slave, but also his son.  He was here with his master, but you never knew of the real relationship between them.  The boy was our guide last night, and he told me his story—­of how justly he hated Le Gaire.  Shall I tell it to you now, or wait?  The doctor is coming.”

She glanced from my face up into that of the approaching surgeon.  The hospital squad, at the nod of command, were bearing the body down the hall.

“Tell me now.”

“It will require but a moment, dear.  It was because this Charles Le Gaire had lived here that I asked for him as a guide.  He agreed to come as far as the end of the ravine only, as he did not wish to be recognized.  Then he disappeared, and, I supposed, returned to camp.  Instead, he evidently stole into the house.  He was Captain Le Gaire’s son by a slave mother.  Bell told me later that the mother was sent back into the fields, and died as a result.  That would account for the hate the boy felt against the father.”

“How—­how old was he?” her trembling lips white.

“Not over eighteen.”

Billie hid her face on my shoulder, sobbing silently.  A moment the surgeon stood looking down at us compassionately.

“I am going to have both you and your sergeant taken up stairs,” he said at last.  “Come, Miss Hardy, you have no right to break down now.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE COMING OF THE NIGHT

It was sundown, and silent without, except for voices and the constant movement of men.  The din of battle, the roar of guns, had ceased, and everywhere gleamed the light of fires where the tired commands rested.  The house stood, shattered but stanch, great gaping holes in its side, the front a mere wreck, the lower rooms in disorder, with windows smashed, and pools of hardening blood staining the floors.  Appearing from without a ruin, it yet afforded shelter to the wounded.