“I think, Governor,” said General Masterson one day, going into informal session atop of his horse and throwing one leg across the pommel of his saddle, his favorite posture—­“I think I would not ride any farther in that direction if I were you.  We’ve nothing out there but a line of skirmishers.  That, I presume, is why I was directed to put these siege guns here:  if the skirmishers are driven in the enemy will die of dejection at being unable to haul them away—­they’re a trifle heavy.”

There is reason to fear that the unstrained quality of this military humor dropped not as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath the civilian’s silk hat.  Anyhow he abated none of his dignity in recognition.

“I understand,” he said, gravely, “that some of my men are out there—­a company of the Tenth, commanded by Captain Armisted.  I should like to meet him if you do not mind.”

“He is worth meeting.  But there’s a bad bit of jungle out there, and I should advise that you leave your horse and”—­with a look at the Governor’s retinue—­“your other impedimenta.”

The Governor went forward alone and on foot.  In a half-hour he had pushed through a tangled undergrowth covering a boggy soil and entered upon firm and more open ground.  Here he found a half-company of infantry lounging behind a line of stacked rifles.  The men wore their accoutrements—­their belts, cartridge-boxes, haversacks and canteens.  Some lying at full length on the dry leaves were fast asleep:  others in small groups gossiped idly of this and that; a few played at cards; none was far from the line of stacked arms.  To the civilian’s eye the scene was one of carelessness, confusion, indifference; a soldier would have observed expectancy and readiness.

At a little distance apart an officer in fatigue uniform, armed, sat on a fallen tree noting the approach of the visitor, to whom a sergeant, rising from one of the groups, now came forward.

“I wish to see Captain Armisted,” said the Governor.

The sergeant eyed him narrowly, saying nothing, pointed to the officer, and taking a rifle from one of the stacks, accompanied him.

“This man wants to see you, sir,” said the sergeant, saluting.  The officer rose.

It would have been a sharp eye that would have recognized him.  His hair, which but a few months before had been brown, was streaked with gray.  His face, tanned by exposure, was seamed as with age.  A long livid scar across the forehead marked the stroke of a sabre; one cheek was drawn and puckered by the work of a bullet.  Only a woman of the loyal North would have thought the man handsome.

“Armisted—­Captain,” said the Governor, extending his hand, “do you not know me?”

“I know you, sir, and I salute you—­as the Governor of my State.”

Lifting his right hand to the level of his eyes he threw it outward and downward.  In the code of military etiquette there is no provision for shaking hands.  That of the civilian was withdrawn.  If he felt either surprise or chagrin his face did not betray it.