“Roland Blake is my name.  Isn’t it Captain Penhallow of the engineers?”

“Yes, well disguised with Rebel mud.  What a mess!  But, by George! not worse than you when I first saw you.”

“Where was it?” asked Blake.

“I can give a good guess.  You were quite as lovely as Mr. Penhallow.”  It was a third officer who spoke.  “By the bye,” he added, “as Blake doesn’t present me, I am Philip Francis.”

“I can’t even offer to shake hands,” returned Penhallow, laughing, as he scraped the flakes of mud from his face.  “I saw you both at the Bloody Angle.  I think I could describe you.”

“Don’t,” said Francis.

“Some people are modest,” said Blake.  “I think you will soon dry to dust in this sun.  I have offered myself that consolation before.  It’s the only certainty in this land of the unexpected.”

“The wagons are over; here comes the guard,” said Francis.  “It’s our beastly business now.  Call up the men, Roland.”

“Provost duty, I suppose,” said Penhallow.  “I prefer my mud.”

“Yes,” growled Francis, “human scavengers—­army police.  I’m out of it this week, thank Heaven.”

The last wagon came creaking over the bridge, the long line of cavalry trotted after them, the Provost Guard mounted to fall in at the rear and gather in the stragglers.

“Sorry I can’t give you a mount,” said Blake, as he turned to recross the bridge.

“Thank you, I have a horse on the other side.”  As he spoke a breeze stirred the dead atmosphere and shook down from the trees their gathered load of dust.

Francis said, “It’s half of Virginia!”

Blake murmured, “Dust to dust—­a queer reminder.”

“Oh, shut up!” cried Francis.

The young engineer laughed and said to himself, “If Aunt Ann could see me.  It’s like being tarred and feathered.  See you soon again, I hope, Mr. Blake.  I am deep in your debt.”  They passed out of sight.  No one remained but the bridge-guard.

The engineer sat down and devoted his entire energies to the difficult task of pulling off boots full of mud and water.  Meanwhile as the provost-officers rode back over the pontoons Francis said, “I remember that man, Penhallow, at the Bloody Angle.  He was the only man I saw who wasn’t fight-crazy, he insisted on my going to the rear.  You know I was bleeding like a stuck pig.  It was between the two attacks.  I said, ’Oh, go to H—–!’ He said, ‘There is no need to go far.’  I am sure he did not remember me.  A rather cool hand—­West Point, of course.”

“What struck me,” said Blake, “was that he did not swear.”

“Then,” said Francis, “he is the only man in the army who would have failed to damn those grinning troopers.”

“Except Grant,” said Blake.

“So they say.—­It’s hard to believe, but I suppose the Staff knows.  Wonder if Lee swears.  Two army commanders who don’t swear?  It’s incredible!”