“Regarding, particularly, their numbers.  Their disposition I already knew.  It is morose.”

The general brightened again; the guard, with a severer sense of his responsibility, accentuated the austerity of his expression an stood a trifle more erect than before.  Twirling his gray slouch hat round and round upon his forefinger, the spy took a leisurely survey of his surroundings.  They were simple enough.  The tent was a common “wall tent,” about eight feet by ten in dimensions, lighted by a single tallow candle stuck into the haft of a bayonet, which was itself stuck into a pine table at which the general sat, now busily writing and apparently forgetful of his unwilling guest.  An old rag carpet covered the earthen floor; an older leather trunk, a second chair and a roll of blankets were about all else that the tent contained; in General Clavering’s command Confederate simplicity and penury of “pomp and circumstance” had attained their highest development.  On a large nail driven into the tent pole at the entrance was suspended a sword-belt supporting a long sabre, a pistol in its holster and, absurdly enough, a bowie-knife.  Of that most unmilitary weapon it was the general’s habit to explain that it was a souvenir of the peaceful days when he was a civilian.

It was a stormy night.  The rain cascaded upon the canvas in torrents, with the dull, drum-like sound familiar to dwellers in tents.  As the whooping blasts charged upon it the frail structure shook and swayed and strained at its confining stakes and ropes.

The general finished writing, folded the half-sheet of paper and spoke to the soldier guarding Adderson:  “Here, Tassman, take that to the adjutant-general; then return.”

“And the prisoner, General?” said the soldier, saluting, with an inquiring glance in the direction of that unfortunate.

“Do as I said,” replied the officer, curtly.

The soldier took the note and ducked himself out of the tent.  General Clavering turned his handsome face toward the Federal spy, looked him in the eyes, not unkindly, and said:  “It is a bad night, my man.”

“For me, yes.”

“Do you guess what I have written?”

“Something worth reading, I dare say.  And—­perhaps it is my vanity—­I venture to suppose that I am mentioned in it.”

“Yes; it is a memorandum for an order to be read to the troops at reveille concerning your execution.  Also some notes for the guidance of the provost-marshal in arranging the details of that event.”

“I hope, General, the spectacle will be intelligently arranged, for I shall attend it myself.”

“Have you any arrangements of your own that you wish to make?  Do you wish to see a chaplain, for example?”

“I could hardly secure a longer rest for myself by depriving him of some of his.”

“Good God, man! do you mean to go to your death with nothing but jokes upon your lips?  Do you know that this is a serious matter?”