There was a strange scene that day at Warrener when, towards noon, two carriages drove out from town and, entering the east gate, rolled over towards the guard-house.  The soldiers clustered about the barrack porches and stared at the occupants.  In the first—­a livery hack from town—­were two sheriff’s officers, while cowering on the back seat, his hat pulled down over his eyes, was poor old Clancy, to whom clung faithful little Kate.  In the rear carriage—­Major Waldron’s—­were Mr. Hayne, the major, and a civilian whom some of the men had no difficulty in recognizing as the official charged with the administration of justice towards offenders against the peace.  Many of the soldiers strolled slowly up the road, in hopes of hearing all about the arrest, and what it meant, from straggling members of the guard.  All knew it meant something more than a mere “break” on the part of Clancy; all felt that it had some connection with the long-continued mystery that hung about the name of Lieutenant Hayne.  Then, too, it was being noised abroad that Mrs. Clancy had “skipped” and between two suns had fled for parts unknown. She could be overhauled by telegraph if she had left on either of the night freights or gone down towards Denver by the early morning passenger-train; it would be easy enough to capture her if she were “wanted,” said the garrison; but what did it mean that Clancy was pursued by officers of the post and brought back under charge of officers of the law?  He had had trouble enough, poor fellow!

The officer of the guard looked wonderingly at the carriages and their occupants.  He saluted Major Waldron as the latter stepped briskly down.

“You will take charge of Clancy, Mr. Graham,” said the major.  “His discharge will be recalled:  at least it will not take effect to-day.  You will be interested in knowing that his voluntary confession fully establishes Mr. Hayne’s innocence of the charges on which he was tried.”

Mr. Graham’s face turned all manner of colors.  He glanced at Hayne, who, still seated in the carriage, was as calmly indifferent to him as ever:  he was gazing across the wide parade at the windows in officers’ row.  Little Kate’s sobs as the soldiers were helping her father from the carriage suddenly recalled his wandering thoughts.  He sprang to the ground, stepped quickly to the child, and put his arms about her.

“Clancy, tell her to come with us.  Mrs. Waldron will take loving care of her, and she shall come to see you every day.  The guard-house is no place for her to follow you.  Tell her so, man, and she will go with us.—­Come, Katie, child!” And he bent tenderly over the sobbing little waif.

“Thank ye, sir.  I know ye’ll be good to her.  Go with the lootenant, Kate darlin’; go.  Shure I’ll be happier then.”

And, trembling, he bent and kissed her wet cheeks.  She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him in an agony of grief.  Gently they strove to disengage her clasping arms, but she shrieked and struggled, and poor old Clancy broke down.  There were sturdy soldiers standing by who turned their heads away to hide the unbidden tears, and with a quiver in his kind voice the major interposed: