“That’s the true story of Col.  John James Waldron,” continued Old Grumps, with a groan which was very somnolent, as if it were a twin to a snore.  “That’s the true story.”

“I don’t believe the first word of it—­that is to say, Colonel, I think you have been misinformed—­and I’ll bet you two to one on it.  If he was nothing more than a minister, how did he know drill and tactics?”

“Oh, I forgot to say he went through West Point—­that is, nearly through.  They graduated him in his third year by the back door, Wallis.”

“Oh, that was it, was it?  He was a West Pointer, was he?  Well, then, the backsliding was natural, and oughtn’t to count against him.  A member of Benny Havens’s church has a right to backslide anywhere, especially as the Colonel doesn’t seem to be any worse than some of the rest of us, who haven’t fallen from grace the least particle, but took our stand at the start just where we are now.  A fellow that begins with a handful of trumps has a right to play a risky game.”

“I know what euchered him, Wallis.  It was the old Little Joker; and there’s another of the same on hand now.”

“On hand where?  What are you driving at, Colonel?”

“He looks like a boy.  I mean she looks like a boy.  You know what I mean, Wallis; I mean the boy that makes believe to wait on him.  And her brother is in camp, got here to-night.  There’ll be an explanation to-morrow, and there’ll be bloodshed.”

“Good-night, Colonel, and sleep it off,” said Wallis, rising from the side of a man whom he believed to be sillily drunk and altogether untrustworthy.  “You know we get after the rebs at dawn.”

“I know it—­goo-night, Adjutant—­gawblessyou,” mumbled Old Crumps.  “We’ll lick those rebs, won’t we?” he chuckled.  “Goo-night, ole fellow, an’ gawblessyou.”

Whereupon Old Grumps fell asleep, very absurdly overcome by liquor, we extremely regret to concede, but nobly sure to do his soldierly duty as soon as he should awake.

Stumbling wearily blanketward, Wallis found his Major and regimental commander, the genial and gallant Gahogan, slumbering in a peace like that of the just.  He stretched himself anear, put out his hand to touch his sabre and revolver, drew his caped greatcoat over him, moved once to free his back of a root or pebble, glanced languidly at a single struggling star, thought for an instant of his far-away mother, turned his head with a sigh and slept.  In the morning he was to fight, and perhaps to die; but the boyish veteran was too seasoned, and also too tired, to mind that; he could mind but one thing—­nature’s pleading for rest.

In the iron-gray dawn, while the troops were falling dimly and spectrally into line, and he was mounting his horse to be ready for orders, he remembered Gildersleeve’s drunken tale concerning the commandant, and laughed aloud.  But turning his face toward brigade headquarters (a sylvan region marked out by the branches of a great oak), he was surprised to see a strange officer, a fair young man in captain’s uniform, riding slowly toward it.