“Oh, he was a good while ago in my regiment—­in our company too, the 71st Pennsylvania—­a drunken beast—­name of Stacy—­Joe Stacy.  We missed him when we were near the North Anna—­at roll-call.”

“What will they do with him?”

“Shoot him, I hope.  His hands were powder blacked.  He was caught on the skirmish line.”

“Thank you.”  Josiah walked away deep in thought.  He soon settled to the conclusion that the Rebs had found Peter and that perhaps he had had no choice of what he would do and had had to enlist.  What explanatory lie Peter had told he could not guess.

Josiah went slowly back to the tent.  His chicken was gone.  He laid this loss on Peter, saying, “He always did bring me bad luck.”  Penhallow was still asleep.  Ought he to tell him of Peter Lamb.  He decided not to do so, or at least to wait.  Inborn kindliness acted as it had done before, and conscious of his own helplessness, he was at a loss.  Near to dusk he lighted a pipe and sat down outside of Penhallow’s hut.  Servants of engineer officers spoke as they passed, or chaffed him.  His readiness for a verbal duel was wanting and he replied curtly.  He was trying to make out to his own satisfaction whether he could or ought to do anything but hold his tongue and let this man die and so disappear.  He knew that he himself could do nothing, nor did he believe anything could be done to help the man.  He felt, however, that because he hated Peter, he was bound by his simply held creed to want to do something.  He did not want to do anything, but then in confusing urgency there was the old mother, the colonel’s indulgent care of this drunken animal, and at last some personal realization of the loneliness of this man so near to death.  Then he remembered that Mark Rivers was within reach.  To get this clergyman to see Peter would relieve him of the singular feeling of responsibility he could not altogether set aside.  He was the only person who could identify Lamb.  That, at least, he did not mean to do.  He would find Mr. Rivers and leave to him to act as he thought best.  He heard Penhallow calling, and went in to find him reading his letters.  After providing for his wants, he set out to find the clergyman.  His pass carried him where-ever he desired to go, and after ten at night he found Mark Rivers with the Christian Commission.

“What is it?” asked Rivers.  “Is John ill?”

“No, sir,” and he told in a few sentences the miserable story, to the clergyman’s amazement.

“I will go with you,” he said.  “I must get leave to see him, but you had better not speak of Peter to any one.”

Josiah was already somewhat indisposed to tell to others the story of the North Anna incident, and walked on in silence over the snow until at the provost-marshal’s quarters Rivers dismissed him.

In a brief talk with the provost-marshal, Rivers learned that there had been a hastily summoned court-martial, and in the presence of very clear evidence a verdict approved by General Grant.  The man would be shot at seven the next morning.  “A hopeless case, Mr. Rivers,” said the Provost, “any appeal for reprieve will be useless—­utterly useless—­there will be no time given for appeal to Mr. Lincoln.  We have had too much of this lately.”