Again the door was pushed open, not timidly, but flung boldly back.  There stood two figures at the head of the hall and in the place of greatest light.  Of these, one was tall and very thin, but upright as a shaft of pine.  Over his shoulder hung a cloak, which he swept aside over his arm with a careless and free gesture of unconcern.  He was clad in dark garments; thus much might be said.  His face, clean shaven but for the long and pointed mustaches and goatee, was high and bold, his gaze confident and merry.  His waistcoat sat high and close.  At wrist and neck there showed a touch of white, and a bit of white appeared protruding at the bosom of his coat.  His tread was supple and easy as that of a boy of twenty.  “Ned, me boy,” he whispered to his companion as they entered, “I’m feelin’ fine the night; and as for yerself, ye’re fit for the court o’ St. James at a diplomats’ ball.”

Franklin, indeed, deserved somewhat of the compliment.  He was of that rare figure of man which looks well whether clad for the gymnasium or the ball, upon which clothing does not merely hang, but which fills out and dignifies the apparel that may be worn.  In height the ex-captain was just below the six-foot mark which so often means stature but not strength, and he carried every inch of his size with proportions which indicated vigour and activity.  He walked now with the long, easy hip-stride of the man whose sides and back are not weak, but strong and hardened.  His head, well set upon the neck, was carried with the chin unconsciously correct, easily, not stiffly.  His shoulders were broad enough to hang nicely over the hips, and they kept still the setting-up of the army drill.  Dressed in the full uniform of a captain, he looked the picture of the young army officer of the United States, though lacking any of the arrogance which might come from the purely military life.  Simply, easily, much as had the little group that immediately preceded himself and friend, Franklin passed on up into the hall, between the batteries which lined the walls.

Any emergency brings forward its own remedy.  The times produce the man, each war bringing forth its own generals, its heroes, its solvers of great problems.  Thus there came now to these persons assembled, deadlocked, unguided, unhappy, who might else have sat forever rooted to this spot, the man who was to save them, to lead them forth out of their wilderness of incertitude.

None had chosen Battersleigh to the leadership.  He came as mere guest, invited as were the others.  There had been no election for master of ceremonies, nor had Battersleigh yet had time to fully realize how desperate was this strait in which these folk had fallen.  It appeared to him merely that, himself having arrived, there was naught else to cause delay.  At the centre of the room he stopped, near by the head of the stern column of womanhood which held the position on the right as one entered the hall.  Here Battersleigh paused, making a deep and sweeping bow, and uttered the first open speech which had been heard that evening.