said the colonel to anybody, riding forward to the crest to see what had really happened.  An hour later his brigade was in bivouac on the enemy’s ground, and its idlers were examining, with something of awe, as the faithful inspect a saint’s relics, a score of straddling dead horses and three disabled guns, all spiked.  The fallen men had been carried away; their torn and broken bodies would have given too great satisfaction.

Naturally, the colonel established himself and his military family in the plantation house.  It was somewhat shattered, but it was better than the open air.  The furniture was greatly deranged and broken.  Walls and ceilings were knocked away here and there, and a lingering odor of powder smoke was everywhere.  The beds, the closets of women’s clothing, the cupboards were not greatly dam-aged.  The new tenants for a night made themselves comfortable, and the virtual effacement of Coulter’s battery supplied them with an interesting topic.

During supper an orderly of the escort showed himself into the dining-room and asked permission to speak to the colonel.

“What is it, Barbour?” said that officer pleasantly, having overheard the request.

“Colonel, there is something wrong in the cellar; I don’t know what—­ somebody there.  I was down there rummaging about.”

“I will go down and see,” said a staff officer, rising.

“So will I,” the colonel said; “let the others remain.  Lead on, orderly.”

They took a candle from the table and descended the cellar stairs, the orderly in visible trepidation.  The candle made but a feeble light, but presently, as they advanced, its narrow circle of illumination revealed a human figure seated on the ground against the black stone wall which they were skirting, its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply forward.  The face, which should have been seen in profile, was invisible, for the man was bent so far forward that his long hair concealed it; and, strange to relate, the beard, of a much darker hue, fell in a great tangled mass and lay along the ground at his side.  They involuntarily paused; then the colonel, taking the candle from the orderly’s shaking hand, approached the man and attentively considered him.  The long dark beard was the hair of a woman—­dead.  The dead woman clasped in her arms a dead babe.  Both were clasped in the arms of the man, pressed against his breast, against his lips.  There was blood in the hair of the woman; there was blood in the hair of the man.  A yard away, near an irregular depression in the beaten earth which formed the cellar’s floor—­fresh excavation with a convex bit of iron, having jagged edges, visible in one of the sides—­lay an infant’s foot.  The colonel held the light as high as he could.  The floor of the room above was broken through, the splinters pointing at all angles downward.  “This casemate is not bomb-proof,” said the colonel gravely.  It did not occur to him that his summing up of the matter had any levity in it.