ELLINGHAM.  Naturally, perhaps; he was my guardian.

Enter HAVERILL. He walks down, stopping centre.

HAVERILL.  Kerchival!  I secured the necessary passports? to the North yesterday afternoon; this one is yours; I brought it down for you early in the evening. [KERCHIVAL takes paper.  Goes to window.] I am ordered direct to Washington at once, and shall start with Mrs. Haverill this forenoon.  You will report to Captain Lyon, of the 2d Regiment, in St. Louis.  Robert!  I have hoped for peace to the last, but it is hoping against hope.  I feel certain, now, that the fatal blow will be struck this morning.  Our old regiment is already broken up, and you, also, will now resign, I suppose, like nearly all your fellow-Southerners in the service.

ELLINGHAM.  You know how sorry I am to leave your command, Colonel!

HAVERILL.  I served under your father in Mexico; he left me, at his death, the guardian of you and your sister, Gertrude.  Even since you became of age, I have felt that I stood in his place.  But you must be your sister’s only guardian now.  Your father fell in battle, fighting for our common country, but you—­

ELLINGHAM.  He would have done as I shall do, had he lived.  He was a
Virginian!

HAVERILL.  I am glad, Robert, that he was never called upon to decide between two flags.  He never knew but one, and we fought under it together. [Exit.

ELLINGHAM.  Kerchival!  Something occurred in this house to-night which—­which I shouldn’t mention under ordinary circumstances, but I—­I feel that it may require my further attention, and you, perhaps, can be of service to me.  Mrs. Haverill, the wife of the Colonel—­

KERCHIVAL.  Fainted away in her room.

ELLINGHAM.  You know?

KERCHIVAL.  I was one of the actors in the little drama.

ELLINGHAM.  Indeed!

KERCHIVAL.  About half-past nine this evening, while the ladies were dressing for the ball, I was going up-stairs; I heard a quick, sharp cry, sprang forward, found myself at an open door.  Mrs. Haverill lay on the floor inside, as if she had just reached the door to cry for help, when she fell.  After doing all the unnecessary and useless things I could think of, I rushed out of the room to tell your sister, Gertrude, and my own sister, Madeline, to go and take care of the lady.  Within less than twenty minutes afterwards, I saw Mrs. Haverill sail into the drawing-room, a thing of beauty, and with the glow of perfect health on her cheek.  It was an immense relief to me when I saw her.  Up to that time I had a vague idea that I had committed a murder.

ELLINGHAM.  Murder!

KERCHIVAL.  M—­m.  A guilty conscience.  Every man, of course, does exactly the wrong thing when a woman faints.  When I rushed out of Mrs. Haverill’s room, I left my handkerchief soaked with water upon her face.  I must ask her for it; it’s a silk one.  Luckily, the girls got there in time to take it off; she wouldn’t have come to if they hadn’t.  It never occurred to me that she’d need to breathe in my absence.  That’s all I know about the matter.  What troubles you?  I suppose every woman has a right to faint whenever she chooses.  The scream that I heard was so sharp, quick and intense that—­