“We are to talk to-morrow.  He acts as my aide-de-camp to-day.  I ought to tell you frankly that he is not friendly.”

“Of course, I knew it,” sighed Charlie, while the tears fell.

“It is only one more trouble—­one more danger, and perhaps it may pass.  So many have passed.”

“Did you tell him anything to quiet him?  Did you tell him that we were married?”

“But we are not married yet, Charlie.  We shall be, I hope.”

“But you ought to have told him that we were.  It might stop him from doing something—­mad.  Why didn’t you tell him so?  Why didn’t you think of it?”

“My dear little child, we are about to have a battle.  I should like to carry some honor and truth into it.”

“Where is he?” continued Charlie, unconvinced and unappeased.  “I want to see him.  Is he at the head of the column?  I want to speak to him, just one word.  He won’t hurt me.”

She suddenly spurred her horse, wheeled into the fields, and dashed onward.  Fitz Hugh was lounging in his saddle, and sombrely surveying the passing column, when she galloped up to him.

“Carrol!” she said, in a choked voice, reining in by his side, and leaning forward to touch his sleeve.

He threw one glance at her—­a glance of aversion, if not of downright hatred, and turned his back in silence.

“He is my husband, Carrol,” she went on rapidly.  “I knew you didn’t understand it.  I ought to have written you about it.  I thought I would come and tell you before you did anything absurd.  We were married as soon as he heard that his wife was dead.”

“What is the use of this?” he muttered hoarsely.  “She is not dead.  I heard from her a week ago.  She was living a week ago.”

“Oh, Carrol!” stammered Charlie.  “It was some mistake then.  Is it possible!  And he was so sure!  But he can get a divorce, you know.  She abandoned him.  Or she can get one.  No, he can get it—­of course, when she abandoned him.  But, Carrol, she must be dead—­he was so sure.”

“She is not dead, I tell you.  And there can be no divorce.  Insanity bars all claim to a divorce.  She is in an asylum.  She had to leave him, and then she went mad.”

“Oh, no, Carrol, it is all a mistake; it is not so.  Carrol,” she murmured in a voice so faint that he could not help glancing at her, half in fury and half in pity.  She was slowly falling from her horse.  He sprang from his saddle, caught her in his arms, and laid her on the turf, wishing the while that it covered her grave.  Just then one of Waldron’s orderlies rode up and exclaimed:  “What is the matter with the—­the boy?  Hullo, Charlie.”

Fitz Hugh stared at the man in silence, tempted to tear him from his horse.  “The boy is ill,” he answered when he recovered his self-command.  “Take charge of him yourself.”  He remounted, rode onward out of sight beyond a thicket, and there waited for the brigade commander, now and then fingering his revolver.  As Charlie was being placed in an ambulance by the orderly and a sergeant’s wife, Waldron came up, reined in his horse violently, and asked in a furious voice, “Is that boy hurt?