with her, the woman to whom he had lied in word, while she to whom he had lied in word and deed was going from him, not to return until the german, and even then he planned treachery.  He meant to lead with Alice Renwick and claim that it must be with the colonel’s daughter because the ladies of the garrison were the givers.  Then, he knew, Nina would not come at all, and, possibly, might quarrel with him on that ground.  What could have been an easier solution of his troublous predicament?  She would break their secret engagement; he would refuse all reconciliation, and be free to devote himself to Alice.  But all these grave complications had arisen.  Alice would not come.  Nina wrote demanding that he should lead with her, and that he should meet her at St. Croix; and then came the crash.  He owed his safety to her self-sacrifice, and now must give up all hope of Alice Renwick.  He had accepted the announcement of their engagement.  He could not do less, after all that had happened and the painful scene at their parting.  And yet would it not be a blessing to her if he were killed?  Even now in his self-abnegation and misery he did not fully realize how mean he was,—­how mean he seemed to others.  He resented in his heart what Sloat had said of him but the day before, little caring whether he heard it or not:  “It would be a mercy to that poor girl if Jerrold were killed.  He will break her heart with neglect, or drive her mad with jealousy, inside of a year.”  But the regiment seemed to agree with Sloat.

And so in all that little band of comrades he could call no man friend.  One after another he looked upon the unconscious faces, cold and averted in the oblivion of sleep, but not more cold, not more distrustful, than when he had vainly sought among them one relenting glance in the early moonlight that battle eve in bivouac.  He threw his arms upward, shook his head with hopeless gesture, then buried his face in the sleeves of his rough campaign overcoat and strode blindly from their midst.

Early in the morning, an hour before daybreak, the shivering out-post crouching in a hollow to the southward catch sight of two dim figures shooting suddenly up over a distant ridge,—­horsemen, they know at a glance,—­and these two come loping down the moonlit trail over which two nights before had marched the cavalry speeding to the rescue, over which in an hour the regiment itself must be on the move.  Old campaigners are two of the picket, and they have been especially cautioned to be on the lookout for couriers coming back along the trail.  They spring to their feet, in readiness to welcome or repel, as the sentry rings out his sharp and sudden challenge.

“Couriers from the corral,” is the jubilant answer.  “This Colonel Maynard’s outfit?”

“Ay, ay, sonny,” is the unmilitary but characteristic answer.  “What’s your news?”

“Got there in time, and saved what’s left of ’em; but it’s a hell-hole, and you fellows are wanted quick as you can come,—­thirty miles ahead.  Where’s the colonel?”