Claiborne forced him to lie down on the bench, and threw a blanket over him, and in a moment saw that he slept.  In an inner room the voices of the prisoners occasionally rose shrilly as they debated their situation and prospects.  Claiborne chewed a cigar and watched and waited.  Armitage wakened suddenly, sat up and called to Claiborne with a laugh: 

“I had a perfectly bully dream, old man.  I dreamed that I saw the ensign of Austria-Hungary flying from the flag-staff of this shanty; and by Jove, I’ll take the hint!  We owe it to the distinguished Ambassador who now approaches to fly his colors over the front door.  We ought to have a trumpeter to herald his arrival—­but the white and red ensign with the golden crown—­it’s in the leather-covered trunk in my room—­the one with the most steamer labels on it—­go bring it, Claiborne, and we’ll throw it to the free airs of Virginia.  And be quick—­they ought to be here by this time!”

He stood in the door and watched Claiborne haul up the flag, and he made a mockery of saluting it as it snapped out in the fresh morning air.

“The Port of Missing Men!  It was designed to be extra-territorial, and there’s no treason in hauling up an alien flag,” and his high spirits returned, and he stalked back to the fireplace, chaffing Claiborne and warning him against ever again fighting under an unknown banner.

“Here they are,” called Claiborne, and flung open the door as Shirley, her father and Baron von Marhof rode up under the billowing ensign.  Dick stepped out to meet them and answer their questions.

“Mr. Armitage is here.  He has been hurt and we have sent for a doctor; but”—­and he looked at Shirley.

“If you will do me the honor to enter—­all of you!” and Armitage came out quickly and smiled upon them.

“We had started off to look for Dick when we met your man,” said Shirley, standing on the steps, rein in hand.

“What has happened, and how was Armitage injured?” demanded Judge Claiborne.

“There was a battle,” replied Dick, grinning, “and Mr. Armitage got in the way of a bullet.”

Her ride through the keen morning air had flooded Shirley’s cheeks with color.  She wore a dark blue skirt and a mackintosh with the collar turned up about her neck, and a red scarf at her throat matched the band of her soft felt hat.  She drew off her gauntlets and felt in her pocket for a handkerchief with which to brush some splashes of mud that had dried on her cheek, and the action was so feminine, and marked so abrupt a transition from the strange business of the night and morning, that Armitage and Dick laughed and Judge Claiborne turned upon them frowningly.